


On the Shores of Heaven

by kiyo_k



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ancient World Laurent - Freeform, Angst, Damen is so out of his element - Freeform, M/M, Modern world Damen, Slow Burn, Smut Eventually, some magic is involved, who am i kidding this is comedy gold
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:51:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 53,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyo_k/pseuds/kiyo_k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While in the middle of a covert operation, SEAL officer Damen was pulled into the waters by a strange force. Upon awakening, he found himself displaced in time and space. Embroiled in a plot to overthrow the king, Damen had to navigate the intrigues of the court while finding a way to get home.<br/>Help comes unexpectedly in the form of Laurent, prince and third in line to the throne.  </p><p>Time travelling AU - sort of</p><p>Disclaimer: characters belonged to C.S Pascat, plot and title inspired by Shinohara</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Damen

The small dingy drifted closer to shore, the clouds parted and Damen had the first glimpse of the moon. It was dyed in a hue of red. Disturbed, he thumbed the tattoo on his left wrist. The small star had been a gift from sister to brother when Damen was enlisted. ‘For luck,’ Gene had said, and he took her words to heart.

Tonight’s mission had sounded straightforward enough. Charge in, get rid of any hostilities, grab the hostages and then get out. The usual drill. Nothing that the team can’t handle. But if that was a sign, Damen will not be taking any chances. No matter what the Chinese said, red reminded him too much of carnages.

He gave his equipment a quick once-over, the boat hit shore, and it was time to head out.

It only took one step out of the boat for Damen to realise that something was very wrong. The water felt deep; deeper than what could have been possible. They were parked at the shore for goddamned sake.

“What the fuck…” Damen cursed and within that breath, he was falling into the waters.

No, not fall; something in the waters had grabbed at him, dragging him away from the surface. Something strong. He fell deeper, and was losing breath quick. At this rate, Damen will be the first seal to drown near shore.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a flash of light. It could be his team, it could be his enemies, but anyone was better than drowning. He struggled and seemingly broke the hold on him. Putting those years of muscle memory to work, he swam to the light and towards his fate.

 

* * *

 

Damen opened his eyes and saw light. Natural, fresh goodness sunlight. He was not aware of having lost consciousness. But it was already day when he got out of the water.

All round him, there were screams and chatters, somehow a crowd of people had magicked around him. He chanced a look at them - they looked weird, too fair to be from this region, and dressed in robes of cloth.

Damen must have drifted much further away than he originally thought. He recognised shit, not the facial features, not the clothes and not even the damned language. But Damen recognised trouble and it seemed coming right at him in the form of angry-looking men holding spears and swords.

Before he could even digest the strangeness of the situation, Damen’s soldier instinct kicked in. He got up and ran.

He ran through nooks and crooks of alleys, and knew not where he was going. The architectures that breezed past him were washed in colours of sand and white. They looked archaic, but Damen had no time to sightsee, for he could still hear the shouts of his pursuers behind him.

The buildings thinned and Damen found himself running out of roads. He turned around for a quick look, and was glad that he could not yet sight the men.

There was an obscure little path on his left, half blocked by walls. Calculating his risk, he turned but someone was there before him, a youth.

Damen immediately threw his weight against the youth and covered his mouth. He could felt the dampness of his captive’s breath through his hands and a shudder through the slight body beneath him. There was surprisingly little struggle, but that could have been due to the knife which Damen had unwittingly drawn against the youth’s throat- soldier’s reflexes cultivated over the years.

Damen held his breath and waited while the stomps and voices of men came and went. Only then did Damen dare to chance a closer look at his captive. Unexpectedly, the cold blue eyes that glared back at him reflected no fear, but rather, defiance. Thrown off guard, Damen’s grip slacked, and immediately he felt a kick to this guts. It was no light blow and Damen staggered backwards. Only a matter of instinct propelled Damen to strike his knife up, just in time to block a blow from the youth who had drawn sword.  
The clatter of metal rung, and Damen then saw clearly the countenance of his once-captive who turned out to be not quite young. In a different setting, Damen would likely be attracted to such a face, for the man was hauntingly beautiful. However, even such beauty could not hide the coldness of the young man’s eyes. Damen had seen such eyes before, and they usually spelt danger.

The young man struck his sword again, seemingly undeterred by Damen who was easily twice his size in muscles. Yet just as Damen relied on his strength, the man relied on his swiftness and every strike came faster than before.

Knife against sword, Damen was no fool and knew that he was on the losing edge.

‘Hey, I am not here to fight, let’s just end this shit.’ Damen tried. For a while it seemed to do the trick. The barrage of attack stopped and his opponent spoke. While Damen could not understand any of his words, Damen understood the glint of malice that flashed across the man’s eyes, and at that moment, Damen threw his knife at the man, grazing his shoulders. The man faltered in his attack, giving Damen enough of an opening to wrestle him to the ground.

Straddling the man and grabbing his throat in a chokehold, Damen was surprised to see once again that there was no hint of submission in the man’s face; contrary his eyes were confrontational, as if daring Damen to kill him.

And so Damen did the unthinkable, he kissed him.

The kissed lasted mere seconds, but Damen thought it lasted longer. As he deepened the kiss, a spark coursed down his spine. It felt like fire and Damen felt burnt. As he pulled back, he felt his lips stung, realising then that he was bitten. Looking down, he could see anger colouring the man’s face.

‘You look cuter when you’re angry you know.’ Damen said, not expecting the man to comprehend as he swiped the blood off his lips. 

Yet the man’s eyes widened noticeably and his flush deepened.

Before Damen could grasp the implications of his response, he heard the rush of footsteps again. Seemed like it was time to go.

‘Wished I had more time with you, but I have to go,’ Damen jested. ‘And one more thing, I will be borrowing this sword.’

With that he left the man behind.   

It could have been karma as Damen thought retrospectively. A wrong turn had Damen cornered in a dead alleyway and it was one man against ten with potentially more coming. He could fight and bring some of the men down, but it was always unwise to hurt your potential captor, as the retribution always come swifter. Damen knew a losing fight when he saw one. 

'Drop your weapons!' One of the man shouted.

It was bewildering. But perhaps luck was on his side and Damen finally met someone whom he can reasoned with.

‘OK, I am going to drop this,’ Damen pacified. Slowly, he placed the sword down onto the ground.

'Now can we...' the men never let him finish his sentence, and the blow that came right after almost knocked him out.

'Bring him to the queen quietly, he had caused enough of a scene.'

That was the last Damen heard before his consciousness faded.

 

* * *

 

Damen woke to the sound of rattling chains and found his hands cuffed to the walls.

His surrounding was dimly lit by rows of candles. The air felt damp and smell faintly of rust. Despite the chill, Damen felt sweat pooling at the bottom of his back.

The door creaked open, and the burst of light made him squint. Damen heard her voice first, ‘Welcome to Vere.’

When his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he saw the women standing before him. A pretty woman, if one go for the vixen-type, and most richly dressed in silk and gems. Damen could be unfamiliar to Vere-what-the-hell and its customs, but he could tell that this woman was someone of enough social status to be reckoned with.

Nonetheless, Damen could care less about social niceties.  ‘Vere... Right. Not much for hospitality huh,’ he said curtly and moved his hand. The cuffs rattled insistently as if to prove his point.

At this, the woman merely smirked and moved towards the table beside, hands grazing over a neat row of daggers. It was a gesture that made Damen felt like meat in a slaughterhouse, and the silence was unsettling. Most hostage situations were about negotiation. Damen wanted her to talk. Talking is likely the only way now to delay whatever fate has prepared for him.

‘Who are you and why am I here,’ Damen snarled, as the woman picked up one of the daggers and tested it in her hands.

‘I am Jokaste, Queen of Vere, and you,’ Jokaste pointed ‘are the sacrifice to make my son King.’

The blade glinted under the candle lights. The serenity, a stark contrast to the brutality of Jokaste’s words, ‘If I slit your throat and offered your blood to the gods, they will grant my wish and my son will be the next King of Vere.’

If there wasn’t a blade pointing at him, Damen could almost laugh. He was captured not by a terrorist cell, but by what? A cult?

‘What in the world are you saying? Killing me won’t make your son King.’  Damen gritted, trying to talk some sense into his captor. Surely the woman could see how ridiculous this sounded.

However Jokaste was unperturbed, ‘It will if the gods said so.’

‘They pointed you to me, and I brought you here. As priestess of Fortaine, patron of waters and springs, my prayers will be answered.’ She gloated with a twisted smile which marred her beautiful face.

As Jokaste approached with the dagger in hand, Damen could feel a surge of hysteria bubbling within. This was worse than a hostage situation. There was no reasoning with the insane; and this woman in front of him was certifiably mad.

With the dagger mere inches away from his throat, the door suddenly slammed open, drawing both their attention, ‘The King is coming!’

‘The King?’ Jokaste’s hand stalled, eyes narrowing. ‘It must be from the earlier commotion. I can’t let him know my plans.’ She sheathed the dagger and grabbed a ball of cloth to gag Damen, slapping him when he resisted.

Not long after, they were joined by an elderly man, who Damen figured from the crown, was the King. ‘I heard that you found the strange man who emerged from the spring. The people are talking. Who is he?’ 

‘My King, please heed the words of your queen and priestess,’ Jokaste bowed dutifully. ‘This man came from the waters and thus falls in the vicinity of the gods. For the prosperity of your kingdom, we should rightly returned him to the realm of the gods.’

 ‘Return him to the realm of gods?’ The King asked. 'You mean as an offering?’

Considering that it was Damen’s life they were discussing about, it was depressing how little hesitation the King showed, ‘Very well, do as you deem fit.’

At his approval, Jokaste’s glee was apparent, ‘Let the preparations begin! At dawn tomorrow, we shall send this man back to the gods.’

 A bell chimed in the distance; it sounded to Damen like a death bell tolling.

 

* * *

 

 

Damen sat in the darkness for what seemed like eternity before a group of man entered. He struggled against their manhandling but to no avail, and was half dragged, half-shoved to an open square where he was brought to his knees with his hands chained to the ground.

The stands were bustling with crowds and it disgusted Damen that a person’s execution could be seen as entertainment by some.

‘King Aleron of Vere’ someone announced, and Damen looked up to see the King and his procession taking seat. At the sight of the Queen, Damen cursed, he would have spit if not for the gag.

Unanticipatedly the crowds stirred, and Damen scanned the crowds, not expecting to see a familiar face walking towards the royal stands. As Damen’s eyes traced the face, cold blue eyes glanced back, showing no hint of recognition.

Damen felt his heart thundered to the sounds of the crowds as the name was called, ‘Prince Laurent, third prince of Vere.’  Moments before his demise, Damen finally have a name to the beautiful man whom he had perhaps humiliated the day before; a man who happened to be the third prince of this strange country where Damen was shackled. Right. Karma was a bitch and Damen was doomed.

A bell was rung, and the crowds fell silent. As Jokaste began chanting, a strange atmosphere permeated the square. Damen felt dizzy and his hands were numb. But defeat was not something he would readily admit without a fight. As futile as it might be, Damen struggled against his chains and the metallic sounds broke against the eerie echoes of the chant.

The executioner raised his axe and Damen shot one last withering look at the royal stands, burning to memory the faces whom he would rather haunt.

The axe fell. Damen felt wetness across his cheeks and time stood still.

And time flowed again when Damen realise that it came not from his blood, but from the goblet of wine now rolling on the grounds before him. Someone had thrown the cup from the stands and it had caught the executioner mid-swing forcing him to abort.

And it wasn’t just the executioner who was affected. ‘Whose goblet is this,’ Jokaste's face was contorted with rage.

‘Oh the globlet was Nicaise’s,’ a honeyed voice drifted from the royal stand.

‘But it was I who threw it.’

The owner of the voice was Laurent.

 

* * *

 

 

The crowd buzzed, but a bark from Jokaste silenced them.

‘What’s the meaning of this? Even if you are the prince, how dare you mock the procession of the gods!’  Jokaste berated, hackles raising.

‘It was not my intention to mock. Far from it, Mother...’ Laurent’s tone was blasé, yet Damen could almost hear the derisiveness in the salutation.  

Laurent stood up and sauntered towards the ground where Damen was chained, his perplexed look softening gradually to one of recognition. ‘I recognised this man,’ he finally said. ‘and I have to say, he is undeserving of the gods.’

It was a cryptic explanation to say the least, but it had Jokaste spluttering with rage. At this, the King spoke up, ‘Calm down my Queen. Laurent, explain yourself.’

‘Your Majesty, I believe an offering has to be of utmost purity. Sending this man would be an insult.’

‘What? Are you insinuating that he is unpure?’ King Aleron threw his head back and laughed. He was joined by jeers from the crowds.

‘Laurent, my son, you jest. This man is no blushing maiden. For an offering, a man’s honour will suffice.’ King Aleron said, wiping tears from his eye.

Laurent however, was unmoved. Instead, he drew a blade and in quick strikes, severed the chains binding Damen.

‘Oh, but your Majesty, here is a man without honour.’ With that, he lifted Damen’s arm for all to see – the mark of a star on his left wrist.

A few amongst the crowds gasped while the rest murmured.

While King Aleron’s response was subdued, Laurent’s reveal seemed to have made its impact. ‘Is that, a slave mark?’ the King rasped, not quite believing what he was seeing. ‘And that mark… the starburst of Aquitart… It couldn’t be…’

‘The mark speaks for itself. This is not a man with honour, but a slave’ Laurent addressed the crowds, circling around Damen, like a predator meets prey.    

‘And not just any slave. He is marked by the star of Aquitart, the crest of my birthright.’

He seized Damen by the chin, ‘In other words, this slave is mine.’

That was perhaps Damen’s first glimpse of what Laurent truly was, a shrewd minx.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I collapsed what used to be chapter 1 to 3 into a single chapter to make it more in line with the length of future chapters. Unfortunately this remove the existing comments. I have learnt my lesson since then: always read pop-up. Thankfully I have already read the comments before that regrettable click, and they have been a huge encouragement pushing me to try and make the chapters longer. thanks very much!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘So I am bait.’ Damen said.  
> ‘A disposable one. Make no presumption, if you ever become a liability, I will not hesitate.’ Laurent said belittlingly.

Damen had gone for close to a day without food and water.  While he had had worse, his latest escapades from the guillotines had left him a tad more subdued. With Jokaste wanting him dead, any more ill-conceived escape would be an act of extreme stupidity. It was this calculation which reined him in from taking advantage of his current situation. Flanked only by four guards, and led by a willowed-looking guide called Radel, Damen could have taken flight if he really wanted to.

The group wound through a disorienting maze of white washed walls with the occasional painted murals, before stopping in front of a set of sturdy wooden doors. As the doors were opened, steam and the stinging smell of sulphur wafted into the walkway.

‘This is the common baths used by guests,’ Radel explained. ‘This household has not housed a slave before and until further arrangement could be made, we will have to make do.’

Despite being indoor, the bath was brightly lit by lights streaming through the intricate patterns of apertures carved into walls near the roof. The bath itself was chiselled into the granite floor and in the middle was a granite column whenceforth water flowed.

‘I have sent for someone, they will attend to you shortly. Do not enter the water until then.’ With that, the doors closed behind him.

However, Daman was not left to his own devices for long, and was soon joined by a few attendants, who stripped him down despite his protests. They washed him with a bar of soap and scrubbed grime off his skin with washcloths. It actually felt pretty good after Damen got over his initial discomfort. But as they dumped a bucket of water from the bath on him, he yelped in surprise as the water was scaling hot. 

Someone giggled, and Damen looked to see that it came from a youth amongst the attendants.

‘Erasmus!’ one of the older attendant chided at the youth and he immediately hushed and went back to his tasks. As the attendants finally gathered their things to leave, Erasmus paused in his steps, pointing at Damen and then at the bath, and said, ‘Soak. The water is good for the wounds.’

It was the first sign of kindness that Damen had received since his arrival in Vere. Years of soldiering had left their marks on his body and Damen was acutely aware of the scars he bore. One on his left shoulder from a clean bullet shot, some grazes on his thighs and calves, but it was the scar near the bottom of back that took the top spot.

The shrapnel from the bomb had left one of his comrades with a limp and one with a punctured lung. If it had been a bit more to the right, it would have torn through Damen’s spine. It took three months of therapy before Damen was fit to serve again. Nowadays though, it looked more gruesome than actually hurting, and served as a stuck reminder of Damen’s mortality.

Having no idea when Radel or anyone else will be back, Damen decided to heed Erasmus’s, and took a hesitant step into the bath. It stung, but minus the surprise factor, the heat felt more bearable. As he lowered himself slowly into the water, the warmth of the water seeped gradually into his skin. As it spread across his back, he felt that old muscle knot between his shoulders loosening. It could get addictive, Damen thought.

As he relaxed further into the waters, Damen’s thoughts strayed to the events earlier.

 

* * *

 

_Laurent had called him his slave and it somehow had the crowds in an uproar. Even the King had looked flabbergasted. Damen had gathered from their reactions, that in Vere, a tattoo was supposed to be a much bigger taboo than skinart and self-expression. He was surprised though that Laurent had noticed that he had one. Though the star wasn’t quite hidden, their preceding encounter was hurried and quite honestly a mess. Would a man like Laurent, who can recall his opponent’s tattoo on the correct wrist, then not recognise his opponent’s face upon seeing him._

_Unlikely._

_So it had all been an act. Laurent’s actions, his intonation, they were calculated; but to what purpose, Damen did not know. All Damen could comprehend was that the procession of his death had been halted by the mere words of one man. The reprieve was only temporary of course, as Jokaste would not be deterred._

_‘You lied,’ Jokaste said venomously and her accusations were not baseless, they both knew that she had brought Damen to Vere just yesterday and little could have been done between his time of arrival and capture. Yet this little detail was only between them, the public had only heard of a man emerging from the oasis._

_‘How could you be so sure mother?’ Laurent challenged. He still had Damen’s chin in his gripe, while Damen remained kneeled on the ground. Laurent’s fingers were cool, but were pleasant on skin under the radiating heat of the rising sun. Damen felt a gentle pull from those fingers and his face was tilted to look into the icy gaze of Laurent. ‘I supposed you recalled the exchange we had yesterday,’ Laurent asked._

_No, Damen could not recall any exchange other than an exchange of blows. Was that what Laurent was referring to? It sounded pretty unlikely that fighting could be a prerequisite to a position in slavery. Damen’s hesitation must have shown, for Laurent looked bemused by his confusion while the King urged, ‘Allow the man to speak. Has the exchange been duly performed?’_

_‘Indeed, it had,’ Laurent said as he finally made a move to remove the damned gag from Damen._

_‘I bought your service with the gems on my sword’, Laurent enunciated while his hands worked to pull out the cloth._

_As the gag fall off and the numbness faded, Damen could feel Laurent’s thumb pressing upon his lips while Laurent continued speaking, ‘I marked your wrist with my crest as proof of ownership, and you gave me the token of your submission. Never did I expect that you would get yourself into this mess when I took my eyes off of a moment.’  His grip tightened, fingers pressing stingingly into skin, ‘Now confess. Did you accept my price, my mark and in exchange offered me the token of your submission ’._

_Seemed like the story they are going with was that Laurent had bought him as a slave with his sword. Damen had not paid attention to that piece of metal which he had ‘borrowed’, but knowing now that it had belonged to a prince, it might have been worth a hefty fortune - one enough to purchase the freedom of a man._

_However, Damen still did not understand what was expected from him. From Laurent’s word, there was supposed to be an exchange of some sort, a price and a token. But Damen had taken the sword and left, leaving nothing in exchange, unless… but it couldn’t be what he was thinking._

_‘This man clearly have no idea what you are saying. Now stop this nonsensical talk,’ Jokaste said, obviously eager to proceed with the ceremony. There really was no time for hesitation and so Damen offered the only thing he could recall giving, ‘A kiss.’_

_At the curl of Laurent’s lip, Damen knew that he had guessed right. ‘I gave you a kiss.’ He repeated, louder this time._

_‘Yes you did, and the exchange was completed then. But for the sake of convincing Vere’s finest, do it again, ’said Laurent and he released his grip on Damen carelessly. He sounded gleeful and Damen wondered why, but not for long._

_‘Now kiss my feet,’ Laurent said._

_It was an order with the intention to humiliate. A sort of quid-pro-quo perhaps, Damen thought, a payback for what had transpired between them. All this talk, this show, just to see Damen cornered in a tight spot. Laurent had Damen unwittingly played. No, not just Damen, but everyone else, who in their misinformed opinion, arrived at a mistaken conclusion._

_Kid sure know how to bear a grudge and how to act on one, Damen had to give him that. Given a choice between losing his head or losing his dignity, Damen never really stood a chance._

_He looked mutinously straight into Laurent’s eyes, as he moved to kiss the nearest sandal-cladded foot. Thankfully Laurent was close enough that Damen did not have to crawl. That would have been unimaginably degrading._

_Damen had intended for the kiss to be the merest brush of skin and the act just as brief, but it was not to be. As soon as lips touched skin, he felt the distinctive press of a foot on his back keeping him down. Angered, he bit. But Laurent never lost his composure; the increased pressure on Damen’s back the only sign of acknowledgement. If anyone in the crowds could spot their power struggle, the farce might have been uncovered sooner. But none did. In fact the act of his ‘submission’ finally did seem to convince them that Damen was indeed a slave._

_‘Enough,’ the King balked, and Damen finally felt the pressure lifted off his back._

_‘Now that we have proved him worthless as a sacrifice, I supposed I will have to be responsible and claim him back,’ Laurent said as he reached for the broken ends of Damen’s chain._

_‘What! No!’ Jokaste protested, but her words were fleetly interrupted by Laurent, ‘In exchange I would deliver a hundred heifer from my estate as repatriation to the gods. It should suffice as per tradition, would it not your Majesty.’_

_‘That will have to do,’ King Aleron sighed and Laurent promptly walked off the square tugging Damen by the chain. As they walked past the royal stands, the King spoke, a hushed tone to avoid the prying ears of the surrounding crowd, ‘My son, a hundred heifer for this slave? How foolish. You have never shown such proclivities, what has come over you?’_

_This gave Laurent pause in his steps, and he replied ‘I supposed all sports will have to begin somewhere. Now if you would excuse me Father. I have a slave to train.’_

_Damen felt mildly mortified as Laurent led him by the chains, as would a man walk a dog. He was going to wait till they have moved away from the public eye to comment on it, when a group of guards suddenly cut in front of them, stopping them in their tracks._

_‘Prince Laurent, allow us to escort you to your estate.’ One of them said._

_‘That would be unnecessary, I have brought my own entourage.’ Laurent said. Sure enough, they were soon approached by a second group of men, twice as many as the first._

_‘As you can see, my safety is well-guarded. You concern is unwarranted, and misplaced if I might say. Who knows what might happened to the Queen while her finest slack in their duties.’_

_Laurent did not wait for a response, and Damen having missed his chance to protest, kept the chains._

_‘Prince Laurent, should I fetch the carriage.’ One of Laurent’s guard asked._

_‘Have someone fetch them later.’ Laurent replied. ‘Horses are so very prone to accidents, especially if someone intend to take advantage of one.  I rather we walk.’_

_They moved on foot, two man surrounded by a group of guards, along a cobbled street. The streets seemed finer and quieter than what Damen had remembered from before, their inhabitants no doubt still lingering at the square._

_It wasn’t a long walk and they reached the gates of an opulent mansion, which was distinctively a cut above the rest of the buildings which they have just passed._

_As they entered the gates, Laurent turned to one of his guards, 'Send the slave to Radel, he will know what to do. Keep him guarded at all times and with your most trusted. We have much to speak about.’_

 

* * *

 

The wooden doors swung opened and Radel walked in followed by the guards and attendants.

‘The Prince has called for you. Make haste,’ said Radel.

The summon came at an opportune moment as Damen was getting slightly lightheaded. He stepped out and was promptly wiped dry by the attendants. They had not brought him his old clothes, but instead, draped a white tunic over him tied down by a sash at the waist. That’s it. That was all. The cloth barely even covered the top of his knees. As they walked out into the corridors, Damen felt very conscious of the breeze underneath.

The walk led to yet another part of the place, and Damen commit as much of the route as possible to his memory as he did before. The passages were well guarded by a number of armed men which only increased in number the deeper they got.

The room where he was ushered into looked like a study. Piles of scrolls stacked upon shelves.  Laurent himself, lies on a reclining couch, an unrolled scroll in his hand. He looked up briefly when they entered, but soon returned back to his scroll, the very gesture of a man used to being waited upon.   Radel was clearly familiar with the habits of his employer, for he merely made a slight bow and led the guards the out, leaving Damen alone with the Prince.

When the door clicked into place, Damen asked the question which has been plaguing his mind, ‘Why did you save me?’    

‘Don’t sound so grateful yet,’ Laurent said offhandedly. ‘All I did was to act on a whim and depending on how it goes, I might have you killed the very next moment.’

If this had been Damen’s first encounter with Laurent, he would have believed him. But after the morning’s demonstration, Damen easily called out on his bluffs.

‘You are lying, you don’t act on whims.’ man like Laurent who feigned even his expression seldom make hasty decisions.

The words seemed to have caught Laurent’s attention and he looked up lazily from his scroll. ‘If you know me so well, would you rather tell me what you are here for?’  

‘Talk? Seems that’s what we are doing now,’ Damen shrugged.

‘Questioning was the word I had in mind,’ said Laurent and he gave Damen a once over.

‘You are not from around here,’ Laurent observed. ‘You look Akielon, but your clothes and style of hair are different. Yet Jokaste, the queen, is intent to see you dead, why?’

Damen was about to answer Laurent, but thought better, and fell silent again. Laurent had wanted information, but Damen have no reason to trust him with anything, especially when he had yet to figure out what Laurent’s agenda is. They stared at each other, neither willing to speak first. Eventually though Laurent broke and in a fit of immaturity, Damen decided that it was his victory. 

‘Were you her lover?’ Laurent drawled.

‘What?’ The question caught Damen aback.

‘Or was it her lover you fucked?’ Laurent postulated.

The idea was so absurd and revolting that Damen could not hold back his harsh laughter.

‘No, I would never,’ Damen broke off when he saw Laurent’s assessing gaze. Laurent was serious in his question. ‘I did not fuck her or anyone else here. I don’t even know her before yesterday,’

‘A woman scorned likely seeks revenge. If not a lover’s spat, why then would she want an outlander killed?’ Laurent was relentless in his questioning, and Damen see no benefit in delaying this conversation, but first, he would prefer some collateral, ‘If I tell you, what will I get in return.’

‘Nothing. I don’t bargain with people beneath my station.’ Laurent’s response was swift and not entirely unexpected, the threats that came next though, was entirely uncalled for.

‘But I can tell you what you stand to lose if you chose not to tell me. Here in Vere, we start slow, usually the fingers first.’ He said in his velvet tone, detailing the cruel and barbaric nature of torture as if he were discussing the weather. ‘But we always certainly end with the tongue. If one will not speak when asked, he shall not speak forever.’

‘Look,’ Damen said exasperatedly. ‘I am not interested in this game of throne thingy you guys have going around here. I just want to walk away with my life okay. Can’t I at least have that?’

‘Game of throne. How apt.’ Laurent smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. ‘You amused me, speak and I might let you walk free.’

It was not a promise, Damen thought, but it was better than nothing.

‘Jokaste said that if she were to kill me and offer me to the gods. The gods will make her son, the next King of Vere.’ Damen said as Laurent eyes narrowed, a frown etching itself between his golden brows.

‘Was that… and this is important. Were those her exact words?’ Laurent asked.

‘No, I can’t remember, but I think she mentioned something about blood.’ Damen replied uneasily. He could not point out why, but there was definitely something going on within Laurent’s mind, and Damen was getting some bad vibes. ‘You are not that son she was referring to, are you?’ Damen joked in an attempt to relive the tension.

‘If it counts, I am one of the sons she is trying to be rid of,’ Laurent said stonily before falling into silence. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else yet?’ he asked after a while.

‘No, just you.’ Danger, danger, Damen thought.

‘Good, we will keep it that way,’ Laurent said as he took a knife out from the sleeves of his robe. It was Damen’s knife. The one he had thrown at Laurent when he they first met. It was a surprise that Laurent had kept it. And what a nasty surprise it turned out to be. Damen felt the blood rushed to his head.

‘You are going to kill me,’ Damen gritted angrily. Laurent was no different from Jokaste, the same disregard for life just to achieve their goals. They deserved each other.

‘So it’s not just muscles, you do have a mind for strategy as well,’ Laurent said silkily. His voice still sounding honeyed, despite the viciousness of its owner. Damen had been so blind, to have even once thought him attractive.  Scorpions and snakes would have made better bed partners.

‘It was a good plan, wasn’t it? Killing you before the queen does. Burn your body, scatter the ashes. No blood, no offering.’ Evil are always so loquacious, Damen thought.  He had decided that the next sentence will be Laurent’s last. If Damen is going down, he is going to take him along for the ride.

If Damen had attacked Laurent then, would Laurent, ever the mastermind, have a backup plan? That Damen would never know, for the plan was never realised. ‘I admit it did cross my mind, but rejoice, I will keep you alive,’ Laurent said and had once again divert blood with words.

At first, Damen thought he heard wrong, and his muscles relaxed for a moment in disbelief before tensing in caution, ‘What? I don’t believe you.’

‘Or had you preferred death? Not that your preference matters. Life or death, the choice is no longer in your hands now.’ _But in mine,_ the unspoken words hung between them.

However Damen was still confused, and Laurent might have took pity on him for he explained, ‘You are the queen’s end game. As long as you are alive, she will look nowhere else. I would rather much have her attention on you, who is now under my watch, than for you dead and her scheming something else.’

‘So I am bait.’ Damen said with realisation.

‘A disposable one. Make no presumption, if you ever become a liability, I will not hesitate.’ Laurent said belittlingly.

 _Who does he thinks he is,_ Damen thought as relief parted way for indignation. Laurent might be the Prince of Vere, but not to Damen who is his own man. ‘What makes you think I will agree to this arrangement? I can run. Get out of Vere. Go home.’ He said.

‘You won’t last a day. She can track you down through any water. You will never be able to go near water your entire life.’ Laurent countered assuredly.

‘Then what if she is dead? What if I kill her?’

‘Ruthless. Couldn’t have guess you had it in you. But no, I would rather she be alive,’ Laurent said.   

 ‘Who cares what you think!’ Damen lashed out angrily. He had had enough, he is not somebody’s pawn. ‘You have already made it clear that you don’t give a damned whether I live.  Why should I give a damned about you.’

Assulted with Damen’s rage, Laurent did not even flinch, ‘You said you wanted to return home. Have you ever thought about how you can do that?’

Damen’s silence betrayed his answer.

‘I knew it was you when I was informed about the procession.’ Laurent said while toying with Damen’s knife in his hand. ‘This blade. Its craftsmanship is nothing I have seen before from this region. So I sent my men to that spring you emerged from.’ Laurent lean back nonchalantly into his couch, his hand reaching out to the chest beside while he continued idly, ‘they found something interesting. A barrel of some sort. One of them toyed with it and his leg was… how did the rest described it? Blown off by a thunder? I gathered you might recognise it.’

He opened the chest and inside it was a shotgun, the standard issue for Damen’s unit and for the mission which he was supposed to execute before coming to Vere. He originally thought the gun lost at sea. Never had it occur to Damen that it could have found its way to Vere. 

‘I have never seen anything of its likes before. I do not know where you came from. Yet I know, and you know too, that no amount of walking will ever get you home.’ Laurent said and he was right. He was right of course. That infuriating bastard.

Damen had known, but he had refused to accept the fact despite mounting evidences. Vere was so very far away from home, from any places Damen had ever been to. Hell, it did not even seemed to be on Earth.

With Laurent so blatantly pointing out the obvious, Damen felt his shoulders sagged, weighed by the collapsing illusion which he had so insistently forced himself to believe in.

With Damen visibly shakened by his words, Laurent seized the opportunity to make the selling pitch.

‘Play this game on my side. If we live through it, I will send you back.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this chapter. As this is an AU, I would like to explain some OOCness displayed by Damen and Laurent.
> 
> In this story, Damen is more of a soldier/ warrior and not a Prince, nor someone of royal blood. What’s more, he is from more modern times. How I see it then, is that his confidence comes not because nobility, but rather from his beliefs in the equality of man and in freedom. As a result, he cannot comprehend the servitude of Veretians people to their royal family and does not want to emulate them. 
> 
> Since Damen is from somewhere else, he is not the same person to have killed Laurent’s brother. Hence Laurent does not hate him at all (so no unnecessary beatings). But neither does he like him. Instead his feelings for Damen is solely neutral. He knows that this relationship that they have going on, was built on threats and rewards. It is a frail working relationship, and while Laurent is prepared to honour his side of the agreement, he is not so naïve to assume that Damen will honour his, hence Laurent does not trust Damen in the tiniest bit. 
> 
> Spoiler next chapter: introducing more characters from the book.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Well, if we are discussing attires appropriate to our stations, I do have to say you look like a fuckable whore this evening,’ was Laurent’s retort. Honestly Damen expected no lesser insult from Laurent, while he still found himself cringing a little, he did manage to get some words in. 
> 
> ‘So you would like to fuck me?’ he said and Laurent glared.

‘I heard he is frigid.’ Orlant said as he thrust his sword at Damen, missing by inches when Damen fell back and blocked the blow with his shield.

‘What? Who?’ Damen asked as he took a shot at the opening and swung his sword against his opponent’s left. It made contact and Orlant staggered back with a scowl.

The practice blades they were using may be dulled in their edges, but the metal were still heavy enough to bruise when struck with enough force. That blow which Damen just delivered would likely hurt later. Not that Damen felt bothered, as just days prior, he was on the receiving end of Orlant’s sword, and its marks still show on his torso, a mottling of blue and yellow.

‘Who else? The Prince of course.’ Orlant said as he charged back at Damen with renewed vigour, slashing at his thighs. It was a tactic which Damen had tasted once before and was not keen to review. He deftly twisted and delivered a kick which caused Orlant to lose his balance and fell face first into the ground.

When Orlant lifted his head, he found Damen’s sword pointing at his throat, their position an exact mirror of their first sparring. But back then Damen had been the one on the ground. With just days into their daily sparring sessions, the bruises on Damen were increasingly turning yellow while Orlant himself had been amassing a new collection of bruises.

‘I yield,’ Orlant said grudgingly. Damen smiled and reached out a hand to haul him back up. Their sparring, though brutal, never ended in bitterness. Instead both men have formed an unlikely sort of camaraderie, which could have its roots in them being soldiers. Both took their fair share of damages with sportsmanship.

‘So is it true then? That the prince is frigid,’ Orlant asked, as they got into their positions for the next round.

‘How would I know?’ Damen jostled back as he delivered the first strike. The strike missed, and Damen quickly moved back in anticipation of Orlant’s coming blow which he caught with his sword. They met in the middle, sword against sword, neither willing to fall back to create an opening for the other to counter. ‘Well, you should know…’ Orland gritted between his teeth as his hands trembled. Facing Damen’s strength heads-on had been a bad decision. Man was built like an ox.

‘…You are his pleasure slave…’ Orland said, and for a moment felt the pressure on his sword easing. He promptly jumped back and distanced himself from the coming attack. But the attack never came and Orland looked up to see a jaw-slacked Damen staring at him in disbelief.

‘I am Laurent’s what?’ Damen asked.

‘Prince Laurent’s,’ Orlant corrected. ‘And everyone knows you are the Prince’s pleasure slave. Caused quite a commotion that day at the square.’ 

 _I am not his slave, much less his pleasure slave,_ Damen thought irritably. Silence had been a part of his agreement with Laurent, and Damen was to tell and correct no one what his working relationship with the Prince truly was. To any other people, Damen would be Laurent’s slave. Hence, whatever words threatened to leave his tongue, he forced himself to swallow with a bitter grimace.

Orlant, however, mistook his silence as admission, ‘Slave or not, you ought to be mightily flattered that the Prince chose you. I mean, look at him. Half of the people wants to fuck him. You are the envy of Vere’s people right now, I tell you that.’

‘Yeah, right. Surely he has had someone before,’ Damen grunted, blocking another blow.

‘No slaves, no paramour, no brothel visits, hence the rumour. So how was he? In bed, I mean.’ They stood apart, circling each other, both looking for an opening to strike.

‘I have never bedded him,’ Damen heaved at last. ‘I have been training with you guys ever since I arrived. Where would I find the time and energy to even…you know,’ Damen was usually not the prudish type, but here he found himself taking more care of his words, lest it reached Laurent’s ear. That very thought disturbed Damen more than he would care to admit. Who knew what Laurent would do to him if he found Damen spreading unsavoury rumours about them?

‘We trained during day, not nights,’ Orlant rebuked cheerfully, his blade nicking Damen’s hand, before Damen drew back. While the slight was barely a prick, it added on to Damen’s frustration and he made one desperate attempt to convince Orlant otherwise, ‘Listen, the Prince does not want me that way. I may be his slave, but I don’t warm his bed. I think he just want me to be his guard or something. Which is why he is having you and the captain trained me.’

In fact, Damen had not seen Laurent since they parted a fortnight ago. The very next day he was called to the prince guards for sword practices per Laurent’s order. It had been a punishing and humbling experience, forcing Damen to tune his body in ways wielding a gun would never have required and had him aching all over. Thereafter it was a repeating cycle of eat, clean, sleep and practice. 

‘Maybe he wanted you mellowed out before bed,’ Orlant suggested and Damen found convincing him to be a lost cause. Instead he directed his attention to bringing the man down again, slashing at an opportune opening. It turned out to be flux however, and a shattering strike knocked the sword out of his hand. A two-week apprentice could not outclass his master it seemed. While Damen may not be a swordsman yet, he was still an experienced combatant, and with his sword hand free, he dropped his shield, cut into Orlant’s space, grabbed his arm and threw him over his shoulders and onto the ground.

The impact sent dust flying into the air, and Orlant laid wheezing. As he regained his breath and looked up from his position to the towering figure of Damen, he croaked, ‘Not mellow… Me think he wants you bulkier.’

‘Damen!’ A voice sounded across the court and Damen turned. Radel clucked disapprovingly as he took in the sight of Damen, ‘We need to get you cleaned. The Prince has summoned for you this evening.’

 

* * *

 

 

Damen ignored Orlant’s suggestive winks when he left the practice grounds. Unlike the preceding days where Damen was allowed to bathe himself, he was immediately swarmed by the servants upon entering the guest bath.

As he stood still under the ministration of the people around him, he could not help but noticed the light blue swirly markings of the wards on the walls. It was said that every room and wall within the prince estate were warded to repel curses and ill-boding magic.

Damen really did not know what to make of that. Where he came from, all these magic-gimmicks-jumbos only happen on in Harry Potter. However, with him being here and not back home, his idea of reality was rapidly changing.

At Radel’s insistent directions, the attendants started massaging some oil-like substance onto his skin, ‘A little more on the right, use paint if necessary. That’s it. Cover that patch.’

While the oil did not make Damen feel uncomfortable, he was slightly overwhelmed by its herbal smell. As a finishing touch, an attendant first wrapped a loin cloth around him, followed by an elaborated sash the colour of sky and embroidered with golden threads. His whole attire barely covered his waist and thigh, and did little to salvage Damen’s dignity.

‘Thank goodness you are dark and the bruises have yellowed, or we will be here all day,’ Radel hummed in approval after taking a step back to assess his work. His assessing gaze had Damen felt downright like a whore. Radel did not notice his discomfort, instead he procured a vial from one of the servant and handed it over to Damen, ‘The Prince did not state whether he needs you prepared. Keep this and use it when the need arise.’

‘What’s this? Some kind of poison?’ Damen asked curiously as he uncapped the vial and took a sniff. It smelled faintly of mint. When he looked up, he noticed Radel looking at him funnily.

‘Not poison of course, what a strange thought,’ Radel said.

At Damen’s blank look, Radel proceeded to explain nonchalantly, ‘When men fuck, it does not go as smoothly as that between a man and a woman. I am not sure how the Prince wants you tonight. Either way, use it when you present yourself to him. You wouldn’t want it to tear.’

It might have been sheer reflex that kept Damen from dropping the vial. ‘I don’t think I need to keep this,’ he hastily said, making a move to pass the vial back.

‘You are right, we can prepare you now if you prefer,’ Radel nodded understandingly, and Damen immediately pulled his hand back.

‘No! It’s alright, I think I will keep it.’ He said with a plastered smile, ignoring Radel’s quizzical looks.

However as he looked down to what he was wearing, he found himself in a predicament, perhaps he should ask for a pouch or something. Radel must have noticed his hesitation, for he took the vial back. There was a long wooden plate tied to the bottle’s neck, and Radel slot the plate snugly into the sash leaving the vial dangling at Damen’s side. A simple mechanism honestly.

 

* * *

 

 

Damen was brought down the same corridor leading to Laurent’s bed chamber. As the doors were opened, and Damen ushered in, he was surprised to find himself tingling with anticipation, or something more akin to trepidation really, considering who he was about to deal with. 

Laurent stood in the middle of the room while being dressed by a servant. With him standing so still, and wearing a pale coloured robe that draped down to his feet, he looked like one of those Greek statues that Damen had seen at a museum.

As the servant wrapped a toga, in the same azure blue shade as Damen’s sash, over Laurent’s shoulder, the slight tilt of his chin broke the illusion. Damen shakily let out a breath which he did not realise he was holding. 

With the last golden strand of hair tied neatly back and the final sapphire ring slotted onto Laurent’s finger, the servant got up from his knees and left dutifully with a bow.

The door clicked into place and Damen found himself alone with Laurent, the cackling of the fire woods the only sound in the room. Despite almost wearing nothing, Damen felt warm.

‘You look good,’ Damen said and immediately he felt like slapping himself. Why the hell did he say that? ‘I mean you are the prince,’ he added hastily. ‘And it’s good to see you dress like one,’ he finished lamely.

‘Well, if we are discussing attires appropriate to our stations, I do have to say you look like a fuckable whore this evening,’ was Laurent’s retort. Honestly Damen expected no lesser insult from Laurent, while he still found himself cringing, he did manage to get the words in.

‘So you would like to fuck me?’ he said and Laurent glared.

‘Careful with that mouth.’ Laurent cautioned, eyes narrowing.

‘While I have no desire to associate with slaves, I can easily find someone less fastidious with who they fuck. Another soldier? Or a beast perhaps? Now that might be interesting enough to watch.’ Laurent said and Damen believed him.

‘That was a joke,’ Damen said.

‘Mine wasn’t. And no more jokes tonight, my uncle has sent an invitation,’ Laurent said. He led Damen to the desk and handed a parchment to him. It was written in gibberish, none of which Damen could understand. ‘I can’t read this,’ he admitted at last.

‘You are illiterate?’ Laurent asked, brows arching.

‘No I am educated. But in English. And this is not English,’ Damen explained.

‘Interesting,’ Laurent said with a calculating look. ‘Afraid we will have to leave that discussion for another day though. My uncle has invited me to the games tonight, and he insisted on meeting my new slave. While I prefer you to not be there, I can’t reject his wish, so here we are now to set some rules.’  

‘I am listening,’ Damen said.

‘When we are at the games, obey whatever I tell you to do. A slave cannot defy his master’s words,’ Laurent said.

‘So you expect me to act like your dog,’ Damen said, he did not like where this conversation was going.

‘And a well-trained one. You will if you want to stay alive,’ Laurent said.     

‘Will you be keeping me on a leash?’ Damen asked grudgingly.

‘No, just a collar will do,’ Laurent replied as he opened a box on his desk. In the box was a golden band too wide to be a bangle or an armlet. It’s a collar and as denigrating as wearing it would be, Damen could not helped himself from exclaiming, ‘Is that real gold? Damn gold’s expensive, this thing must be worth a fortune.’

He looked up to find a slight curl at the corners of Laurent’s lip, which must have been the closest thing to a smile that ever graced that face. However it disappeared just as quickly as it appeared.

‘Nothing that a prince can’t afford. Though I must say your response was rather subdued. I had expected more objection,’ Laurent said with a hit of amusement.

‘I don’t like wearing a collar. But at least it’s not some cheap bling. If I have to be a pet, I would rather be a high-class one,’ Damen said resignedly as he clasped the collar on. It wasn’t heavy, but without the oil, the edges would have been chaffing at his skin. No matter how he adjust it, it just felt uncomfortable.

Suddenly he felt the touch of a fingertip near the base of his throat and the band caressing slowly on his skin. It was then that he realized that Laurent had closed in on him and was adjusting the band. It was bewildering, and Damen for once, was rendered speechless. Eventually the band stopped, and Laurent looked up to gaze steely at him. ‘My crest. At the front,’ he explained, tapping at the band before stepping back again.   

‘One last thing before we leave. Do not trust anyone no matter what they say,’ Laurent said. ‘Words are weapon. Do not hand a dagger to someone for them to throw it at your back when you turned. If you do not know what to say or what to not say, best to be silent and unheard. Trust no one.’ he repeated.

‘I know, I watched every season of GoT. I will keep quiet,’ Damen said. Laurent narrowed his eyes at the strange reference, but eventually let it slide and turned instead to walk towards the door.

‘You know, when you say to trust no one, does it include yourself?’ Damen asked, and Laurent stopped in his tracks.

‘Can I trust you?’ Damen asked again, and Laurent after a moment, finally turned to face him.

‘I will never place your interest above my own. But I will offer you this one thing' he said. ‘If I have to ever send you to your death, I will not lie to you. I will give you a reason to die for.’ 

A reason to die for.

At that moment when the promise was made, neither had any idea what that meant in the events to come.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update took longer than I expected. I actually wanted to post it together with the part where met Laurent's uncle (anyone knows his name?) . But that's a lot more to write, and I don't really want to drag this any longer. So I reshuffled some of the ideas and somehow the next chapter would still work out even if I were to post what I have written first.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurent gave an impassioned wave of hand, gesturing at the crowds below, ‘Gamers here want to be entertained. Coins are nothing but secondary. Slaves though, are more interesting spoils. Fuck them. Whip them. Cut them. Short of killing them, the winner can dictate anything. That’s sports.’ 
> 
> ‘That’s sick,’ Damen spat out.

Damen could feel the eyes roving over him. A myriad of apprehension, disgust and lust. Such attention might have been flattering in another time and place, a club perhaps. But in Vere, the appreciative looks were more often than not accompanied by blatant contempt, especially once the onlookers noticed the collar on his neck. It wasn’t a good feeling.

The games, as Damen had come to realise were more of a casino thing rather than a gladiator one. (He blamed Russel Crowe for putting that thought in his head.) It was indoor for one. At a place that looked far more opulent than Laurent’s residence. Damen thought it was all rather excessive as they strolled past yet another nude mural. 

The prince’s guard who had escorted them from the prince residence were dismissed once they entered the premises.  So now it’s just him and Laurent and other extravagantly dressed guests, who stared and traded hushed whispers when the prince presence was announced. Laurent must have made extremely poor company, judging by the wide berth that the other guests had been giving them. But it wasn’t long till a woman approached with casual friendliness, ‘Prince Laurent, glad that you could join us at the games tonight.’

Laurent and the woman exchange pleasantries. She had a commanding air around her and from their conversation, Damen gathered that she goes by the name of Vannes. When Vannes caught him looking, she gave him a mischievous wink and drawled, ‘So this is the slave I’ve heard so much about. My, my, he does look Akielon. Where did you find such a rare one? Those Akielons would rather be sent to the pits than take the slave mark.’

‘He’s mixed. Mother’s from Vask,’ Laurent lied.

‘Well that explains it then. Men ain’t worth much in Vask. Better to make your fortune elsewhere,’ Vannes said offhandedly. ‘Now the more important question is, which table will you be playing at? I would have you join me at our usual, but since you brought such a fine specimen along, it would be a shame not to play at the center.’ Vannes said while throwing a look in the direction of the centre of the hall which was cleared except for a single table.

‘While I appreciate the advice, we will have to leave that for another day. This one is not sufficiently trained for entertainment yet. He would bore us.’ Laurent sounded almost pleasant. It seemed like the dour attitude was reserved solely for Damen.

‘Keeping him all for yourself? How possessive. Well then, we shall head to the upper floor for Pai. That’s where the best view is anyway. I have heard that Councillor Audin is playing with a new one tonight.’

 

* * *

 

The game Pai as they called, consists of a deck of thin wooden tiles with a series of dots engraved onto them. Damen could not understand the rules beyond the fact that each player received four tiles which they then arranged into sets of two, and when the tiles of all player were revealed, coins were exchanged. While Vannes appeared to be on a winning streak, Laurent paid out almost as much as he was winning. All in all the game seemed incredibly dull, especially for Damen who had been kneeling on the ground the whole time. It wasn’t a comfortable position even with the cushions shielding his knees, and Damen would have preferred to sit, had it not been for the loin cloth which really hide nothing if Damen flat out crossed his legs.

In contrast to Damen prudish comport, the rest of his ‘counterparts’ seemed perfectly at ease with their nudity; like the woman beside him, breasts barely covered by a heavy sets of pearls and head resting in Vannes’ lap, or the young brunette across from him, who was sucking lewdly on the fingers of his master after being fed a piece of fruit. He must have been staring too blatantly for the brunette released the finger with a pop and rose to whisper something to his ‘master’ who went by the name of Berenger.

‘Prince Laurent, your slave looks far too stiff for the night. Perhaps some wine or smoke would loosen him up.’ Berenger chuckled.

‘Perhaps indeed.’ Laurent smiled as he reach for his goblet and Damen soon felt fingers on his neck, thumb at his pulse caressing gentle circles into his skin. The warmness of the touch was broken by the press of cold silver on his lips as Laurent led him to drink from his cup.

‘As you are aware, I am new to this slave business. Yet I could not comprehend Vere’s custom of hand feeding them. Could we not do as the Patrans does, and have them serve us instead?’ Laurent remarked.

‘But the Patrans had not have a tale like that of the poor merchant Gerolde. Poisoned by a slave…,’ Berenger said.

‘With eyes on his gold and a heart of coal.’ Vannes recited. ‘Maybe we should play it when the next Patran ambassador visits.’

The laughter of the courtiers was cut short by the bustle of activities from below.  The crowd below had swelled immensely from before, and were flocking towards the center.

‘Looks like Councillor Audin is out of coins.’ Vannes said after leaning over the railings for a better look.

‘Has he now?’ Berenger asked with a frown. ‘I hope they skip the whip this time. I have never understood its appeal. All that blood.’ he shuddered. ‘And oh, don’t get me started on the scars. Slaves with a marred back, can you imagine that? I heard they just throw them out later. What a waste.’

‘Well, well what do you know? Some slaves might carry scars well.’ That statement drew Damen’s attention and he looked up to see Vannes pointedly directing a salacious look at him. Again the attention might be flattering but it was really coming across as creepy and something totally uncalled for. Damen resist the urge to roll his eyes. He ignored her and instead turned his attention back to the commotion.

A kid who looked barely legal was dragged across the floor and tied to a vertical wooden trestle beside the grand table. He was spread. Hands and feet apart. Back facing the crowd. Like an exhibit, a spectacle, Damen realized. At the same time, he spot the whip, hanging from the waist of a burly man.

The kid put up surprisingly little struggle. He must have seen the bulk of his handler and resigned. Once his position was deemed fit for the audience, it wasn’t long before the first cackle of whip rung through the air.

A white line appeared where the whip touched skin. It wasn’t ripped open at once, but rather appeared as two welt of red on the edges, which were soon connected by a bloody line. That drove the crowd mad. And by the second stroke, the atmosphere went wild.

Through that cacophony, the cries of the tortured could barely be heard. Not that Damen needed to hear that. The sight conveyed enough.

‘What are they doing?’ Damen hissed incredulously. He could barely hear himself over the din and neither did Laurent, who paid him no heed. ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ He spoke louder this time and with a push as an added measure. This finally earned him an annoyed look and a nonchalant response. ‘Gambling winnings. You couldn’t possibly think that any of us here has needs for coins, do you?’  

Laurent gave an impassioned wave of hand, gesturing at the crowds below, ‘Gamers here want to be entertained. Coins are nothing but secondary. Slaves though, are more interesting spoils. Fuck them. Whip them. Cut them. Short of killing them, the winner can dictate anything. That’s sports.’  

‘That’s sick,’ Damen spat out. They were four, no five whips in, and already the back was covered in blood. ‘He’s just a kid. Stop them.’

Laurent, however seem not to notice anything amiss. ‘He’s no child. He knew what his employment entails. Besides how do you propose I stop them? Or are you willing to take his place?’

_Fine. If that’s what it takes._ Damen thought.

‘Hey!’ he stood up and shouted. ‘Hey you! Big guy with the whip there.’ It took some effort but he somehow managed to capture the attention of those who were present. Laurent himself looked at Damen as if he was mad. But in that moment Damen thought himself the sanest man in the whole parlour.

‘Why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?’

Laurent had not stopped him. Maybe he had been too quick on his feet. It wasn’t that much of a height, and Damen had impulsively leaped down.

As he walked towards the grand table, the crowd parted for him. Damen had read somewhere that fear was evolutionary. Those early humans who had the sense to run from their predators outlasted to pass that trait on. He was acutely aware of how he tends to appear to the common civilians. Intimidation was after all, an unspoken requirement in his field of work. In the league of man, Damen would be amongst the apex. And so was the man before him.

The burly man had stopped the whipping. Now that Damen was closer, he noticed that the guy was a head taller. Good.

‘Got a problem slave?’ Burly man grinned. He wasn’t looking for an answer and though Damen had been wary, the whip still managed to graze him on the side. While it merely felt like a scratch compared to a bullet, Damen wasn’t a sucker for punishment. When the man swung his arm back, Damen went straight in for his neck.

There wasn’t any room for hesitation, not when the other guy held a weapon. Aggression was crucial. So when burly man went down with the first surprise hit, Damen never gave him a chance to get on his feet. It was fist to face all the way. Surprisingly, no one stepped in to stop their brawl. Instead, each blow Damen delivered was rather well received by the audience judging from their cheers. Now, how’s that for entertainment?

It took a few more blows for the struggles to falter. Damen only looked up when he deemed that burly man was sufficiently incapacitated.

Laurent was standing a few feet away, looking very blasé about the scene which Damen initiated. Damen had been trained to read people and situations. But when it comes to Laurent, Damen could not get a read on him at all.

‘Nephew, what have you done?’ The source of the voice was a well-dressed, heavy shouldered man.

That’s when Damen thought he saw a hint of emotion flickered briefly across Laurent’s eyes.  Yet when he spoke next, it was once again an inflection of sarcasm. ‘Uncle. Congratulations on your winnings tonight. I am surprised that you chose the whip. Isn’t that slave to your liking?’

The man was grim. ‘Of all the alternatives, you should know that flogging had been the better option.’

‘Is it?’ Laurent drawled and walked closer to the trussed up slave. ‘Oh my. He is a tad old, isn’t he?’ 

The retort was met with an exasperated sigh. ‘Laurent, I have always been tolerating of your caprice. But tonight your whims had bereft the guest of their enjoyment.’

‘Nonsense, the guest sounded rather much entertained,’ Laurent interrupted.  ‘But if fault must be found, Uncle, I believe it was your handler. Had he put up more of a fight, the performance would have been rousing.’

‘You called that a performance?’

‘Of course it was. And I had meant to dedicate it in your good name too. You had after all requested to inspect my new slave. I had brought him and had thought it appropriate to have him put on a display of his talents. How was he?’ Laurent asked as he leaned closer to Damen, one hand tracing down well-defined biceps and curling with a tender touch at the bloodied fist. That display sent a buzz of excitement through the crowds, likely fuelling the rumours which had been brewing since it was known that the prince had bought a slave. 

‘Glad to see that it was well received and you are all very much welcomed.’

Laurent’s uncle though, was not to be placated. ‘Well I hope he is as good with a whip as he is with his fist. A loss is a loss and the rules have to be upheld least there be anarchy. That slave is five whip short and we are out of a handler.’

‘I am not…’ Damen’s reply was silenced with a brush of finger across his lip. It was Laurent who replied, ‘My slave have expressed earlier that he would rather be at the ends of the whip than to be the one holding it. It gives him pleasure you see.’

Damen had definitely not said that. He looked at Laurent in shock. From the corner of his eye, he saw Laurent’s uncle giving him a queer look.

But Laurent, that jerk continued, ‘If it needs to be, I can handle that whip. I have been told that a good master should indulge in his slave’s needs.’ He picked up the whip which had been left on the floor since the earlier altercation, and gave it a few swings for good measure. Satisfied, he shot Damen a predatory smirk.

‘Enough! I see what this is about. Nephew, the decreed was a majority vote by the council. Your tantrum here will have no further bearings on the decision. You shall ride to Delfeur without fail. Now leave and take your slave.’   

 

* * *

 

‘You! What the hell was that?’ Damen demanded once the carriage door closed behind them.

‘What was that? It was me saving you. Again.’ Laurent snapped. ‘Were you dropped on your head as a child? I had cautioned you, and yet you went against everything I had asked. I should have flogged you. If words can’t do the trick, whips might.’  

‘There you go again. It’s always whips, torture. I am sick of this place. Can’t you people just solve things the non-violent way?’

‘Says the man who just beat someone senseless.’

Damen spluttered, ‘What? You expect me to sip wine and watch that kid get abused?’ 

Laurent gave a derisive snort, ‘And what had you achieved? If you think you had saved that slave, you’re sorely misguided. Like his predecessors he will be thrown out to the streets before the blood even dry. And there are many more who will take his place. That’s how it is here, that’s how it has always been. One little fight, and you think you could change that? ’

 ‘I knew that.’ Damen gritted. ‘I knew that. Believe me, I have seen things. Which is why I can’t stand by when there is something that I can do.’

They stared at each other as silence stretched out between them, punctuated only by the clatter of wheels on uneven ground. 

The rest of the journey was thankfully uneventful. Damen have had enough to process for the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Am I to wash myself now?’ Laurent asked and Damen blinked owlishly.  
> ‘You want me to wash you?’  
> ‘That face,’ Laurent tsked disapprovingly, ‘Most people would have considered this an honor.’  
> Or a torture, Damen thought. The ice is thin around the prince, and Damen would prefer not to drown.

Damen had come to realize that Delfur was a long ride away, hampered more so by transport as primitive as horse carriages. It could have been worse. Damen could have been asked to trod on foot.

Early on, the roads leading out of Arles had the semblance of functional infrastructures, paved with well-worn slabs of stones. The paths split and forked, and usually by nightfall, the procession would have reached some nowhere small towns to rest for the night.

The guards camped. Laurent, however, was entitled to private suites usually at the best inn, or where inns were lacking, the best hosts within the vicinity.

To better serve the prince and his needs, Damen was to dwell in a common room no further down the corridor together with Radel and the physician.

Thus far the prince had not summoned Damen for his ‘services’. In fact they had not talked since that night at the games. Whatever orders the prince had for him were relayed through Radel.

How had Damen known that he was to accompany the prince on his trip to Delfur? Because Radel had said so.

How was Damen to know that outside of the prince’s residence, he had to keep the collar on at all time? Because that was what Radel said.

Damen had seen so little of Laurent that he would not be surprised if some one told him that the prince had been found dead; stashed in some fancy wardrobe while Radel was out dishing orders. Not that Damen was complaining. He had been sharing lodgings and carriage with that man. While Radel was discreet and aloof, he wasn’t the permafrost which Laurent had been.

As the days dragged on, Damen began to think that Radel pitied him. The man had taken to giving slight pats on Damen’s shoulders whenever he informed Damen that the prince had once again retreated for the night. Alone.

Those times Radel had looked at him as one sees a pet currently out of his master’s favor.

Although Damen wasn’t too keen on being sympathized (and over something that he has no care for), he was not above exploiting the sympathy to develop a functioning relationship with the Head of Staff. And there had been progress. When Radel was not busy with the prince’s businesses, Damen did manage to cajole some pleasants conversations out of him:

_Delfur is south of Arles. Yes, that makes it slightly warmer in the winter. Good for a vacation. If you don’t mind the travel._

_That town produce the best wine around here. It’s all in the soil and the rain._

_The roads from Arles to Delfur was built long way back. For trades of course. Spices and tea came from Patras. That’s east of Delfur._

_Further south are the dunes where the barbarian live. I forgot, you are Akielos on your father’s side. Well I am all for mixing blood, it helps to dilute the barbaric nature.  
_

While Damen did not think that he would be best buds with Radel anytime soon, he was quite confident that they can be considered as acquaintances. You know. Like neighbours. So it had come as a bit of a shock that night when Radel attempted to stab him with a dagger.

Radel was unsuccessful only because Damen had experiences subduing people who were handsy with weapons. Even when the aggressor in question looked rabid. Like really.

Radel was usually immaculate in appearances. But the man Damen had under restraint had no qualms about appearances. While the bloodshot eyes might have been due to dust (and there were plenty on the road), the drooling and the babblings are sure signs of an insane mind.

Radel’s willowy figure hid a surprising amount of strength. But Damen was unrelenting and Radel’s struggles became increasingly desperate. He is going to hurt himself, Damen thought.

‘What are you doing to the poor man?’ the physician who happened to chance upon them was staring at Damen with wide-eye horror. Damen was a few sizes bigger than Radel and the physician had obviously misunderstood. ‘Guards, Guards!’

‘He attacked me! Something’s wrong.’

The guards were quick to arrive. Damen had to give them credit for their swiftness, but not when they started manhandling Damen instead.

‘Wait, what?’ Damen shouted ‘You got the wrong guy.’ His protests were ignored and his resistance seemed only to invite even more rough handling from the guards. ‘Grab the slave’s legs. He’s strong. We need more men.’ As they dragged Damen away, Radel, now freed, made a grab for the dagger.

‘I said you got the wrong guy. Look at him.’  With the his hands and legs held down by the guards, Damen was a sitting duck, and Radel, blade in hand looked ready to carve into him.

This is gonna hurt, Damen thought as the blade reached for him. But a sword intercepted in the nick of time. It was Jord. The captain of the guards had arrived with Laurent in tow.

Laurent unperturbed by Radel’s behaviour, sauntered up to the man and punched him in the guts. That managed to invoke whatever pain response which Radel still possessed. Clawing at his throat, he doubled over and retched out a foul looking liquid which dissipate as soon as it hit ground.

If there is one thing Damen had learnt from his time at Vere, it would be to stop questioning the bizarreness and just accept them as they were. That made life so much easier.

 

* * *

 

‘Radel had been compromised.’ Laurent said, as soon as the doors closed behind them, leaving him and Damen alone in the room.

‘Will he be alright?’ Radel had looked awfully pale when they left him with the physician.

‘He will be.’ Laurent said. He gave Damen an assessing stare, ‘He tried to kill you, yet you still care for him?’

‘It doesn’t look intentional.’ Sure, Radel had tried to maim him, but judging by the look of things, the man had been possessed by something or someone.

‘Intention does not matter once you are dead.’ Laurent said. ‘I would have to bury my slave and hang one of my best men. All played well into the hands of Jokaste.’

‘So it was her?’ Damen had guessed as much when he saw the water. He had remembered Jokaste’s words well enough. Priestess of Fountaine, patron of water, she had said. Seem like those were not mere words from a crazy woman.

‘I had the collar warded to shield you from her. But she has found a way to pry through some puppet’s eyes.’ Laurent shrugged. ‘There is no telling who she will use next. Seems like I have to keep your leash short now. You will stay in my room starting from this night.’

Damen felt slightly overwhelmed by Laurent’s concern for him, and it must have shown, for Laurent arched one of his golden brows quizzically, ‘What?’

‘Nothing,’ Damen stammered, ‘I just thought you had washed your hands off of me after the games.’ Damen regretted as soon as he said that, for the mere mention of that night immediately cast a shadow over the prince’s delicate features.

‘You,’ Laurent scowled as he pointed a ringed finger at him, ‘are a nuisance. But I don’t intend to lose any of my man over a slave with a death wish. Now can we retire for the night, or do you intend to go wrestle with more man?’

Nope, Laurent’s still the same sarcastic ice prick. Damen sighed as he pulled the blankets up to crawl into bed. Laurent’s right, it had been a bloody long night and he could do with some sleep. Plus, the bed had look inviting. If the inn had been a hotel, the prince’s room must have been where the presidential suite is.

But of course, Laurent was not going to make any of this easy, ‘What are you doing?’

‘You said that we should retire for the night.’ Damen said, making air quotation marks. ‘I take it that you meant sleep.’

‘And you think the place to do that would be on my bed?’

Damen gave a cursory glance around the room, ‘Well I am not seeing another bed here.’

Laurent sighed and gave Damen a pinched look, ‘The rugs by the fire. Sleep there.’

‘What?’ Damen spluttered, ’But your bed is big enough for two.’  In fact it could house three even.

‘I can make the guards chain you there.’ Laurent suggested. And he would, had Damen not comply. Damen knew as much from his past dealings with the man.

‘I hope you drown in those bloody sheets.’ Damen cused as he resigned himself to the rugs.

‘Be wary of the fire. Wouldn’t want the sheets to stink of charred flesh.’ Was the prince’s snide response.

Damen groaned. The rug was little barrier against the hard ground and no spot had been comfortable, no matter how he tried. Damen had slept in some rough places on some of his tours, and had no doubt that he would find sleep sometime in the night. But who would chose a floor when presented with a bed?

‘Can’t I at least have a pillow?’ He tried, hoping that the prince might just be annoyed enough to toss one at him.

But of course, Laurent always played the upper hand and no pillow came.

 

* * *

 

Orlant caught Damen yawning the next morning as they prepared for another day of riding.

‘Rough night?’ the prince’s guard asked.

‘You have no idea.’

‘Well, words around the barracks, is that the slave slept in the prince’s room last night. So on the contrary, I might have some idea.’  Orlant jested, and Damen felt his eyebrows rose.

What? Is Damen a celebrity now? Or is there a betting pool? Knowing soldiers, that was a high possibility.

‘Whatever you think happened, did not. He made me slept on the floor.’

‘During or after the fuck?’ was the reply, and Damen couldn’t help but chuckled.

Orlant was a nice chap, and a good soldier if he had climbed the ranks to be the prince’s personal guard. In another time and place, he would have made a decent paparazzi; or one of those inquisitive grandmas who lived vicariously by spying on their neighbours. But Damen was no entertainment. His sex life had been as dry as the Sahara’s since he got to Vere. Or as frosty as the arctic, if one considered Laurent’s reputation.

Speaking of the man, Laurent kept true to his words. Once they hit the road, wherever the prince went, Damen was to be a foot behind. Trailing like an obedient dog at his master’s heel.

A tighter leash had it’s perks as well. It had meant better food served on fancier plates and cushioned upholsteries since he now rode in the prince’s carriage. But where Laurent go, Damen went, and that had meant the baths too. That, Damen had not thought of, until they were alone at the guest baths and Laurent had casually turned his back to him and said, ‘Undress me.’

Those words weren’t meant to be an invitation of course. Damen knew. But the sudden curl of want and lust hit him just as hard.

Thankfully, the prince had his back facing Damen. If Laurent had seen the expression on Damen’s face, he would knew. That as much as Damen try to feign indifference, he still had the vulnerabilities of a common man. That weakness for a pretty face. And while Laurent might be too haughty to play his charms to a slave, he would most definitely taunt Damen with it as a cat toys a mouse. Laurent already held Damen’s return ticket, he shall not be given more leverages.

‘I’m not your servant.’

‘Of course not, servants are more useful. But still I have fed you, housed you in my room, kept you alive -- ’

‘Fine.’ Damen put his hands up in mock surrender, ‘I’ll do it.’

Veretians clothes, by virtue of it’s weather, were utilitarian. First was the sash around the waist and then the robes, pinned down by a booch. Both of which Damen made quick work of. The laces on the tunic though, were tricky. He dared not chance a look at Laurent’s face as he worked the laces down his chest. A body, as well defined as the one under his hands, was like any other, if only he could ignore the face of it’s owner.

‘Shaky hands?’ Laurent huffed as Damen fumbled with yet another tie.

‘I’m just not used to this.’ Damned, someone should teach these Veretians how to sew buttons.

‘No experience undressing people?’

 _More like no experience undressing you_ , Damen thought. Laurent was not prudish. And he had no reasons to be, his body was as frustratingly well proportioned as his face was, slender but well built. The prince did not just lay on couches and read scrolls. Not with muscular forms like that. Beyond that pretty face, there is more to Laurent than what meets the eyes. That, Damen was sure of as he finally got the last tie free and bent to gather the scatter clothes from the ground. Yep, definitely not some cupcake. Not with calves like that.

With the robes in his arms, Damen thought himself excused, and stepped away. But the prince wasn’t about to let him go.

‘Am I to wash myself now?’ Laurent asked and Damen blinked owlishly.

‘You want me to wash you?’

‘That face,’ Laurent tsked disapprovingly, ‘Most people would have considered this an honor.’

 _Or a torture_ , Damen thought. The ice is thin around the prince, and Damen would prefer not to drown. 

‘I don’t bite.’ Noting his hesitation, Laurent teased and Damen’s eyes fell inadvertently on the prince’s lips. They had been soft, Damen would know.

He wondered if that was intentional on Laurent’s part, that he would knew the memories his words would conjure. Back then Damen had not known that a chance encounter would have led to this dance with the devil. And at this moment, Laurent looked especially devilish as he stepped closer. Close enough for Damen to see the throbbing on his neck, close enough that Damen could feel Laurent’s breathe at his ears.

‘Question is, do you?’

It was mortifying how Damen felt himself stiffened. He was a grown adult male for god sake, not some horny 16 y.o. with a biting kink. But Laurent got to him like no one else did. And it didn’t help that Damen did have a thing for necks, had loved biting right below the ears, the exact spots which are now merely inches away from his face.

‘I’m leaving. You can wash yourself.’

Damen needed to get as far away from Laurent as possible while his dignity is still intact.

And this time, Laurent let him.

Damen thought himself safe until he reached the doors.

‘Don’t soil the carpets.’

He was so fucked.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people who served Laurent believed that he has ice for blood. 
> 
> Damen could see where the rumors started. He had once held a knife to Laurent’s throat, and the prince had barely blinked. Laurent had looked at death and sneered, but one man’s name, and the prince’s composure crumbled. 
> 
> Auguste, Damen wondered. Who’s that?

The rest of the rides with Laurent had been awkward, at least on Damen’s part. Laurent, being the man he is, was unfazed and had paid more attention to his scrolls than to Damen. The prince had his fair share of admirers in and outside of court. Damen was certain that he’s nothing but a speck amongst them. 

_ Admirer,  _ Damen hated that term. He preferred to think of his attraction to Laurent as lust and leave it at that. Laurent was pleasant to the eye, yet rotten at the very core; despite what his sister claimed, Damen actually has standards when it comes to relationships. 

Yet as much as Damen tries to keep his eyes glued to the passing sceneries, every so often, they would be drawn to the profile of the man opposite. It was like gravity, and Damen couldn’t helped but be pulled along. 

They were headed towards Ravenal. The last citadel before Delfeur. Strange enough, the reception the tour had been receiving from these parts of the land was exceptionally chilly. Previously, villagers would gather along the main roads just to try and catch a glimpse of their prince. But now that they are in the South, the southerners steered clear of the processions. Evidently a stark contrast from the journey before. 

It was worst when they reached the actual fortress. Touars, lord of Ravenal even grimaced at the sight of Laurent. He made an effort to mask his displeasure though, ‘Prince Laurent. I did not expect you to be here.’ Lord Touar bowed to kiss the ring on Laurent’s outstretched hand, before straightening quickly as if to shirk away from a serpent. 

If Laurent had noticed Lord Touar’s poor hospitality, the sentiment was concealed as perfectly as his host. ‘Neither did I,’ he stated blandly. ‘But the council had thought that a prince is what Delfeur needs. So here I am. Passing through.’ 

At the mention of Defleur, Touars brows furrowed. ‘Defleur,’ he gruffed before asking incredulously, ‘and the council had thought to send you?’ It seems like everyone kns about Delfeur, except Damen, no one had bothered to give briefings to a slave. 

‘Don’t give me that look. I did not ask to come to this dreary place,’ Laurent chided with a small wave of hand. Damen thought the description was inappropriate. The weather at Ravenal look and feel perfectly fine. Perhaps it was a little too sunny for Laurent’s disposition. The conversation moved on while Damen was momentarily distracted. 

‘... whatever the councils advised, the King acceded as usual,’ Laurent sounded dismissive, however his tone immediately sharpened, and the conversation took a stinging dive, ‘But if you had wanted someone else, you should have stated it clearly...’ Laurent paused and gave Touar a pointed look, ‘In those missives you’ve sent my uncle.’ 

Touars eyes widened.

‘Delfeur,’ Laurent grilled. ‘My very own estate, overrun by a plague that was only known to me via the council. Tell me Lord Touar, how much did the Chancellor pay you?’ Laurent was never one to minced words. 

‘Prince Laurent. I do not understand,’ Lord Touar protested, but Laurent would have none of it.

‘How much did my uncle pay to have you spy on my estates?’ 

‘My prince, you’ve misunderstood…’ 

‘Did he promised you Delfeur?’ Laurent scoffed. ‘Or was it gold? A pretty woman perhaps? What is it he gave to have swayed the resolute Lord Touar of Ravenel whose loyalty supposedly lies with his prince?’ 

‘The missives … ’ Lord Touar faltered under Laurent’s unrelenting barrage. Damen thought that the man was about to lose his composure. But Lord Touar seemed mindful of his men who most undoubtedly were eavesdropping, as Damon was, on the exchange between lord and prince; he merely clenched his teeth, and hissed, ‘I’ve received nothing of that sort from the Chancellor.’ 

Laurent corked an eyebrow, the poster look when one is trying to convey utter disbelief. Lord Touar continued in a low-toned voice, ‘Your uncle was merely concerned. He only wanted what’s best for the people and for you. He sees to it himself that your estates are well-tended. You should not vilify his kindness.’ 

‘Should I be grateful then? To be chastised in the council for neglecting my estates.’ Laurent asked. It was the prince’s patented sarcasm as usual, but somehow it ruffled Lord Touar, who stared accusingly at Laurent. 

‘And is that not true?’ Lord Touar derided. ‘Prince Laurent. Do not pretend that you had any care for the south. You left ten years ago and had not returned once. Your lands laid barren. Your people, too sick to till.’

Laurent looked unmoved and that appeared to get on Touar’s nerves. 

‘The weak are starving,’ Lord Touar pleaded. ‘What would your brother have said if he had seen Delfeur? What would Auguste…’ The blow that came was hard enough that Lord Touar staggered and his men rushed forward immediately to support him.   


‘Don’t you dare speak that traitor’s name!’ Laurent spat vehemently. The prince looked livid. And he had looked, Damen thought, vulnerable, which is not a term that Damen would ever associate with the prince. 

The people who served Laurent believed that he has ice for blood. 

Damen could see where the rumors started. He had once held a knife to Laurent’s throat, and the prince had barely blinked. Laurent had looked at death and sneered, but one man’s name, and the prince’s composure crumbled.  _ Auguste,  _ Damen wondered.  _ Who’s that? _

 

* * *

 

Laurent’s mood was foul since then. 

He had slammed the door in Damen’s face and when Damen tried the door, he found it bolted. Fine. Damen knew when to take a hint. If Laurent wants to be left alone, Damen will leave him alone. But that left the awkward question of where Damen should go. Or stay for that matter. 

He considered asking Radel. But Radel had been leery of him since the attack, which Damen found insulting. Afterall, Damen had been the victim, he should be the one who’s afraid. Maybe the man had thought that Damen was the revengeful kind?

Anyway, Damen wanted to speak to Orlant first. Preferably away from Laurent’s watchful eyes. He had a rough idea of where Orlant would be at. Most probably at the camps which is being set up near the keep. 

As he navigated along the corridors, the servants scuttled away from him.  _ The prince’s slave.  _ They whispered. 

Slaves are seldom kept outside of the big cities. While Ravenel is decently sized, it’s residents mostly take to agriculture, much unlike the merchants in Arles who view slaves as yet another avenue to flaunt their wealth. It is no wonder that the servants would gossip, and Damen paid them no heed. 

‘Oops sorry,’ Damen bumped into some soldiers on his way. Unfortunately, they were not wearing the prince’s colours. Lord Touar’s men must have caught wind of the scene earlier, of how the prince had trashed out on their lord. And seeing Damen wandering alone had given them the opportune moment for reprisal. 

‘Where do you think you are going?’ One of them taunted. ‘Doesn’t the prince keep his fucktoy in his room? Or is the prince inadequate for you?’

‘Maybe it’s the other way. Maybe he’s inadequate for the prince,’  Someone else suggested as the others laughed. 

Damen let the insults rolled over him. He really had no time for imbeciles. As he moved away, one of the men made a rough grab for his shoulders; and in a second, Damen had that guy’s head in a chokehold. The remaining soldiers immediately drew their swords. 

One-against-five. And without a sword? Well, Damen always liked those inspirational quotes on trying. He didn’t have to though. As the imminent fight was broken by Jord and another of Lord Touar’s man, who Damen presumed to be their captain. And Damen let his captive go reluctantly.

‘One against five. Are you mad?’ Jord exclaimed as he led Damen away. Jord had been Damen’s trainer first, before Orlant. But his duties as captain has kept him busy and the task had eventually fallen to Orlant. Though Damen finds the man a little too uptight in his duties, he still reserved a healthy respect for the captain. ‘For the record. I didn’t start it,’ Damen explained. 

‘I know.’ Jord frowned. ‘Touar’s men have been itching for a fight since we arrived. I have requested their captain to keep them away from my men. Never expect them to go for you though.’ 

Damen shrugged, before asking as casually as he could,‘The people here doesn’t seem to like Laurent much huh?’ 

‘Prince Laurent.’ Jord corrected. He eyed Damen warily before looking away with a sigh, ‘So you’ve noticed.’ 

‘Would be blind not to.’

‘It wasn’t always like this. The south had been the queen’s homeland,’ Jord said.

‘Jokaste?’ If the people were aware of the power struggle between prince and queen, that might explain the hostility. 

‘No, Queen Hennike. Prince Laurent’s mother.’ 

_ Well, that absolutely makes no sense, _ Damen thought and he asked incredulously. ‘There are other queens?’

‘Not at the same time of course,’ Jord explained. ‘Queen Hennike had served before Jokaste.’ 

‘What happened?’ Damen prompted, his interest piqued. Unlike Orlant, Jord wasn’t the type to gossip behind the prince’s back. But Damen did not have to wait long for an answer. 

‘She was killed by my traitorous brother.’ An icy voice said and both men turned around to find Laurent glaring disapprovingly. 

 

* * *

 

 

There were numerous questions running through Damen’s head since then, but he was sure that the prince would not be forthcoming with the answers. Damen had after all been given the silent treatment all day. Everyday actually.

They had left Ravenal early, with dawn barely breaking along the horizon of the Delfeur plains which stretches south of Vere, reaching all the way to the Sicyon deserts where the Akielon tribes reside. Damen could tell that Delfeur has fertile lands. The plains were blessed with abundant sunshine, warm temperatures, and freshwater streams from the Vaskian Highlands. 

From the carriage, Damen could see wheatfields in the distance, labouring villagers, and flags flying on the roofs of quaint houses. It was only when they got closer that Damen noticed that those were not flags, but white rags of clothes.

‘What are those rags for?’ Damen asked curiously. To his surprise, Laurent answered.

‘Death and sickness. A white rag for the sick and a black one for someone who’s dead.’ 

That immediately brought back memories of the conversation between Laurent and Lord Touar. Damen recalled Touar saying something about Delfeur being overrun with plague. Damen had never been stationed at outbreak sites before, but he knew of people who did. Pestilence is just as bad as war.   


The carriage trudged along; a group of children stopped in their play to peer curiously at them. Damen gave them a little wave, and they waved back hesitantly. As the children ran off, Damen felt thankful that there had only been whites in the village.

The next few villages were the same; whites only, no blacks. But it was too soon for relief, and eventually Damen spotted a black, and then more.

* * *

 

 

‘Prince Laurent, we have arrived,’ Jord announced. 

They had stopped at a lone block, which sits away from the village. It was a low building cut in stone, typical features of Veretian architecture. The man who greeted them at the entrance had beady eyes, the only feature visible behind a white mask. 

‘My prince, you should not be here,’ the man said.

‘Is it contagious?’ Laurent asked. By now, Damen had realized that the man they are speaking to must be the equivalent of a doctor in Vere.

‘We do not know.’ The man’s response elicited much displeasure from his prince. 

‘It had been months,’ Laurent stated grimly. ‘Do we still know nothing in all that time?’

‘My prince, The illness has been most peculiar. Unlike anything we’ve seen,’ the doctor stated solemnly. ‘The afflicted are males in their prime and the old, usually from the same household. But it seldom affects the young, nor the woman. You see, my prince, illnesses tend more to target the weak.’ 

‘Actually I think women have better immune system.’ Damen couldn’t help but chipped in; when they were young, Gene had often rubbed that in Damen’s face whenever flu season comes around. 

‘I’m sorry?’ The doctor did not expect the slave to speak. 

‘I mean, it’s not really right to say that women are weaker to diseases…’ Damen started to explain, but was cut off short by the doctor.

‘Whose slave is this? And what right does he has to talk about subjects he knew nothing of.’ 

‘He’s mine,’ Laurent pronounced, with an added tinge of possessiveness which took the doctor aback. Afraid that he might have unwittingly offended the prince, the doctor shifted his eyes uneasily between prince and slave, until Laurent next spoke, ‘Ignore him, he likes to poke his nose into business that do not concern him. Very unbecoming of a slave I would say.’   


_ Ouch. _

‘Well, where did I stop...’ Glad to be off the hook, the doctor continued with his explanations, ‘This plague starts with the sickness of the lungs. It sets in quicks with bouts of fevers and chills and upsets of the stomachs.’ The doctor paused, ‘And then the nightmares take hold.’ 

‘Nightmares?’ Laurent asked, uncomprehending. 

‘Prince Laurent, it may after all be best to show you. Please follow me.’ The doctor said and skulked back into the building. 

Laurent made a move to follow when Damen grabbed him by his arm. 

‘Are you sure it’s safe?’ Damen asked.

‘You could stay outside.’ Laurent suggested plainly, but Damen could all but imagine the word  _ chicken _ added to the sentence. 

He sighed, ‘Look this is not about me. You heard the man, whatever’s in there is more likely to hit men in their prime. I have my jabs, which does not exactly mean I am off the hook. But what I’m trying to say is that the virus will more likely kill you,’ Damen circled his finger at Laurent and the other soldier, ‘and your men if you all barge in like this.’ 

‘Which is why I’m going in alone,’ Laurent stated matter-of-factly. 

_ What are princes made of? Intelligence, looks, contempt and stubbornness. Yep. That’s what princes are made of,  _ Damen thought as he rolled his eyes. ‘No you will not. I’m coming with you and we are both going to at least wear masks.’  

 

* * *

 

The corridors within the hospital-or-whatever were dimly lit with candles. Now that they are in the building, Damen realized that that most of the windows were firmly shut which might be attempts made to contain whatever germs that’s running around. But that does shit for the ventilation, and the air smells stale and unpleasant. 

They stopped in front of a barred wooden door. Damen thought he heard muffled voices like those of a man suffocating coming from within. 

‘This man is in the last stage of the illness,’ the doctor said as he unlocked the door and ushered them in. Within that room lays a man, mouth gagged and limbs bound by cloth to the sides of the bed. The room smelled of sweat and piss, even over the alcohol-soaked cloth which Damen was wearing. 

‘Why is he bounded?’ Damen asked. The doctor looked annoyed that the slave has interrupted yet again, but he answered nonetheless, ‘When the sick are too far gone, they start having nightmares. Illusions. It drove them mad and they start hurting themselves. So we have to tie them down.’ 

Now that the doctor has explained, Damen noticed the wounds on the patient arms. Long welts of dried blood. Scratches. Those were self-inflicted.   


‘Can they be healed?’ Laurent asked. 

‘Not at this stage. Chalis help to alleviate the symptoms, but not for long. This man will die soon.’ The doctor judged, shaking his head dejectedly.   


‘Chalis?’ Laurent sounded surprised at the mention. ‘They are found in the far east. Where did you get them?’   


‘Lord Aimeric has bought some from the merchants of Patras,’ the doctor explained. 

‘Aimeric,’ Laurent frowned upon hearing the name before turning pensive. ‘Patras, the city of merchants. The rumors are true then. With the right price, one can buy anything, even chalis it seems. Still, Lord Aimeric must have paid a fortune to obtain them.’ 

‘The lord did not disclose the sum. But he has been most concerned for the people of Delfeur, and the most kind to provide for the treatment,’ the doctor said respectfully.

‘He should be. He governs Delfeur,’ Laurent remarked. Wait, was that jealousy that Damen detected? ‘We’ve seen enough,’ Laurent said and he motioned for Damen to leave. 

‘Wait, I think he’s trying to say something.’ Damen said. Since they entered, Damen had been hearing muffled voices from the gagged man on the bed. ‘What’s he saying?’

‘Nothing. Just nonsense from a febrile mind,’ the doctor said. He sounded way too nervous and that made Damen suspicious. 

‘No harm hearing right?’ He looked around the bedside table, found a cloth and before the doctor could stop him, he removed the gag.

With the gag off, the man heaved heavily at first. Coughing and gasping for air. For a moment, Damen thought he would seize. But the man did not and when he stopped, he turned glazed eyes towards Damen and the prince and said feebly, ‘It’s the curse.’ 

That caught Laurent’s attention, and as he leaned closer, the man continued, ‘The land’s been cursed by the dead prince.’ 

‘Prince Auguste has cursed Delfeur.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally getting to the meat of the story.  
> I have the whole plot planned out.  
> But I am a slow writer.  
> English is supposedly my native language, but I haven't been using it to write stories after high school.  
> Have just been you know, writing boring stuff, like emails, essays, reports ...  
> I'm now trying to stick with 1 chapter every mth or two.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very thought of a war with the Akielons had driven Aimeric pale. Or it might had been Laurent’s steely stare. After an uncomfortable moment of silence where even Damen, an outsider, could feel the hair on his neck prickling, Laurent finally said, ‘We will ride out.’ 
> 
> ‘It may be too late for Mellos. But Breteau is but half a day ride away. It could be spared from the worst if the Akielons come.’

Governor Aimeric was waiting for them at Marlas when they arrived. Contrary to Touars who had been a soldier, Aimeric had the countenance of a scholar and had looked, Damen thought, far too young to be a governor of a fort which stood so far out of the capital.

Marlas had been important once, back when the Karthas pass was still the main route for Patrans merchants to peddle smoke, spices and silk into Vere for gems and occasionally a prized Akielon foal if they could interest wandering tribesmen in their wares. It was in such times, that the great Akielon kyroi - Alcaeus of Ka, set siege on Vere with the might of ten thousand horsemen.

The Veretians had thought that uniting the fractured tribes in the desert was a feat no man could have done. And that was partly true. For no other man did after Alcaeus, and the flames of war fanned out as quickly as it ignited when he fell untimely to a snake bite. But the damage had been done. The city was sacked, the Patran spice trade moved north through the Alier forest trail, the tribes broke and retreated back to their oasis and Marlas remained very much ignored by everyone since.

Aimeric must have been eager for the renewed attention no matter the circumstances. When the servants brought the prince to him, he had looked up at Laurent as a dog would his master. But Laurent was curt and had cooly disparaged the governor for failing to report on the plague before news had reached the council. The verbal lashings were vicious, even to Damen who was accustomed to the trash talkings in camps. Aimeric’s pride was only salvaged by the fact that Damen and perhaps the guards at the doors were the only witnesses to the dressing downs.

‘You shouldn’t have said that,’ Damen said as they left the guest hall. ‘The kid clearly likes you.’

‘Does he now? I would have much prefer that he looked after my lands, instead of fawning over my heels.’ Laurent replied.  

‘Isn’t governing too much responsibilities for someone that young?’

‘Aimeric is the youngest son of Councillor Guion. Too far down the bloodline to inherit his father’s title. Yet he had secured a fort for himself, as insignificant as Marlas may be. Mark my words, he is no blundering child.’

Veretians grew up far too fast, Damen thought.

When he was their age, Damen had merely been a green horned cadet who enlisted solely because he was too old to remain in the orphanage. And that was the only way he could afford an education.

Damen’s thoughts were interrupted abruptly by the hurried footsteps of a trio of guards. The man leading had been devoted to barking out orders until he spotted them. Recognition dawning that he was in presence of his prince, he saluted promptly, as did his men.

‘Captain, you looked as if you had seen a ghost.’  Laurent said with a frown, taking note of the uneasiness in the men’s composure.

 'That might just be it, a ghost from the past’ the old captain said warily.  ‘Prince Laurent, we have just received news that the Akielons have attacked Mellos.’

 

* * *

 

 

The man from the small village of Mellos reported that the village had been set to flames by Akielon riders.

He had no idea what had transpired this turn of events. Mellos was a small town of thirty, mostly children and elderly, and had no wealth or valuables to speak of except for their land. But the Akielons had attacked them, raiding down doors after doors, rummaging through homes before setting them on fire.

‘What about the villagers?’ Someone asked.

Those who resisted were struck and those who don’t were dragged onto horses, carried like goods and swallowed into the desert. The man had been lucky as he had been sent to the stable for the night, and had kept himself hidden beneath the hay while watching his family dragged away. Only when the Akielons were gone, did he dare to ride out to seek help from the governor.

‘My children, my parents. They took them all,’ he wept. ‘Please, Governor, you have to get them back.’ He begged as the guards led him out of the hall.

For a while, the hall fell still, till Laurent next spoke.

‘Since the great war, the Akielons had kept mostly to themselves and to their oasis. Why had they attacked now?’

‘They are Akielons. There are no reasons to these uncivilized creatures.’  Some unrecognized lord in Aimeric’s court shouted while glaring daggers at Damen, as if it was all Damen’s fault.

‘We need to retaliate. Burn their tribes!’ Clamoured another immediately. His suggestion was met with incendiary shouts of agreement. This was all it took for the tension in the room to escalate, and finally someone shouted, ‘Let’s start with the slave.’

As soon as he heard that, Damen snarled, eyes narrowing and right-hand falling to his waistband where he had taken to hide a small shaving blade. From the corner of his eyes he could see two soldiers inching closer, as soon as they were within arm length, Damen will strike. A hand however, held his arm down. It was Laurent.  

‘You dare touch what is mine?’ Laurent seethed, and the soldiers backed away expeditiously.

At that moment, Aimeric who had thus far kept quiet, spoke up, ‘Prince Laurent, we need to do something. If this was indeed an attack on Delfeur, the Akielons would not stop at Mellos.’

The very thought of a war with the Akielons had driven Aimeric pale. Or it might had been Laurent’s steely stare. After an uncomfortable moment of silence where even Damen, an outsider, could feel the hair on his neck prickling, Laurent finally said, ‘We will ride out.’

‘It may be too late for Mellos. But Breteau is but half a day ride away. It could be spared from the worst if the Akielons did come.’

‘But prince…’ Aimeric oncoming objection was silenced with a cool sideward glance from Laurent.

‘The plague and the Akielons? Your governorship does not seemed to be favored by the gods. What other surprises will you bring me?’ Laurent puzzled. Damen thought that sounded harsh, as there’s no way Aimeric could have foreseen an attack from foreign forces. Definitely not with the technology in these times. 

As the prince moved to inspect his troops and his horse in the courtyard, Damen realized then that Laurent would be riding out with his men.

‘You are tagging along?’ Damen asked incredulously.

‘Tagging? No. I’m leading.’ Laurent said, and Damen rolled his eyes.

‘You have no idea how many Akielons are out there. No details. Nothing’

‘All the more reason for me to go,’ Laurent said while checking the straps of his harness. ‘As you might have noticed, report from the governor had not been forthcoming.’

‘It could turn into a battlefield.’

‘A battlefield with known foes is safer than a court of false friends,’ Laurent said with a pointed look at Damen. ‘If you have half the mind you professed yourself to have, you should keep yourself out of sight and ears while I am gone. In fact, bolt yourself in the room till I return.’

‘What? No,’ Damen protested. ‘I am coming with you. You’ve said so yourself, a battlefield is safer than at courts.’ There’s no way Damen could let the prince charge into an unknown battlefield. Laurent was his homebound ticket.

Laurent scrutinized Damen with reservations before smirking, “Fine. But I do hope you can ride.’

 

* * *

 

Truth be told, Damen could.

But a holiday job working at the ranch back in eleventh grade did not quite prepare Damen for the kind of riding this journey entailed. The roads were uneven and the pace, punishing.   Barely hours into the ride and he could already feel a dull ache seeping into his thighs. He had no doubt that he would be sore the very next day.

Though Damen wasn’t keen to admit, he was relieved when the pace eased midway of the journey for the horses to rest.

Damen let his mare slowed to a canter alongside the others. Wiping sweat off his forebrow,  he looked up only to spot the blue and gold banners of the prince a further distance ahead. Someway along the ride, he had fallen behind and now found himself flanked by unfamiliar faces dressed in the green liveries of Marlas .

‘Here, you should take a sip as well.’ A voice called out. A soldier had come to trot beside Damen, and had nudged a waterskin at him.

Damen eyed it warily. That unpleasant incident with Radel was still fresh on his mind and he was keenly aware that somewhere back in Vere, Jokaste wanted him dead. However,  his throat was rough as sandpaper after hours of travelling through the dust-prone road. And now that he had the waterskin in hand, Damen’s thirst felt overwhelmingly unbearable.

He took a hesitant sip, and peered at the soldier cautiously. The man had looked sane and friendly, that must have counted for something, and with that judgement, Damen took a longer pull. The water that flowed was a sweet welcome.

‘Thanks, erm… ’ Damen grunted, and handed the pouch back to the soldier.

‘Nicolas,’ the soldier said and deftly slinged the waterskin back around his waist. ‘Call me Nicholas. Pleased to make your acquaintance Damen.’

‘How do you know my name?’ Damen blinked, suspicion raised. His slave band was quite well hidden beneath the leather armor that he had borrowed from Jord.

‘Everyone knows about the prince’s slave.’ Nicholas stated, not the least perturbed with the question. ‘And no other Akielons will ever served at Marlas. With your features, you are quite distinguishable.’    

Now that they are in the south where most locals were as olived-skinned as he was, Damen hadn’t really thought that he had looked any different from the rest. The question was out before he could stopped it,  ‘Do I really look like an Akielon?’

‘With that hair and skin? Undoubtedly. Why?’ And now it was Nicholas who looked guardedly at him.

‘Nothing,’ Damen pipped.

‘It’s just that I’m actually from Vask and I’ve heard that I am mixed. But I am not even sure who the Akielons are.’ He explained hastily, hoping that the curt explanation was sufficient to divert Nicholas’s attention.

‘Vask? That’s all the way up north,’ Nicholas pondered loudly. ‘I have heard that some Akielon tribes had travelled via sea up north. Maybe you descended from them?’  

Damen had no idea how to answer to that except to shrug non-committedly. But Nicholas’s attention was elsewhere.

‘Do you smell that?’ He asked.

The air had a tinge of causticness, so very different from the fresh greenness of the Delfeur plains. It had been faint though, but now that Nicholas had pointed that out, Damen recognized it for what it was.

‘Smoke.’

Up ahead, Laurent and his guards broke into a gallop.

 

* * *

 

Breteau was a cacophonous mess when Damen arrived.

All around rung the rackets of skirmishes between raiders and guards, the cackles of wood on flames, and the wails of civilians caught between. Through the smoke, Damen could barely make out the silhouettes of men. It would be near impossible to find Laurent amongst this din.

‘Help! Kingsmen, anyone! Help!’

A man scuttled in Damen’s direction, arms waving wildly. So intent was he on the pursuer at his back, that he had not noticed Damen till mere steps away.  And when he finally did, he let out an unmanly squeal and proceeded to trip over his own robes and rolled to the ground.

‘A… Akielon,’ he squeaked while scrambling undignifiedly on all fours to put some distance between himself and Damen.

‘Wait, behind you!’ Damen warned as a masked Akielon raider emerged from the smoke, dagger raised in hand.

Like a deer caught in headlights, the man eyes widened and he froze. Yet the impending blow did not came. Deeming Damen as the greater threat, the raider had charged at him instead. Damen barely had time to lift his shield to block.

Once. Twice. Thrice. Their blades clashed, as their horses circled round each other.

The Akielon was short and wiry, and for a brief moment, Damen thought he had the upper hand; he had afterall twice as much bicep muscles as his attacker. Still, his attacker was a menace on horseback.

With the smoke and the ongoing commotion Damen’s own mare had been skittish and flighty. The need to control his horse take up as much of his focus as the need to heed his attacker’s blade. But the Akielon and his horse rode as one, swiftly dodging every swing which Damen managed in. It was like fighting a damned centaur, and each thrust of the dagger came closer and harsher than the last.

When the Akielon released the reins on his own horse and unsheathed a second blade, Damen eyes widened.

‘Two blades? That’s fucking cheating!’

His mare seemed to agree, as she suddenly neighed and kicked up a fuss, threatening to unseat Damen. Meanwhile, his attacker had gotten close enough to nick his arm, drawing a thin line of blood.

‘Urgh, fuck it.’ It was a liability to drag this fight out on horseback, Damen thought. So he waited for the Akielon to get close again, for the next strike to give him the opening he needed. His attacker did not see it coming, not until the moment when Damen jumped and tackled him off his horse.

Both men plunged to the ground grappling, sending up a choking cloud of dust.

Damen’s sword was gone. But he had no need for it. Hand to hand combat was right up his alley. When the Akielon attempted to stab Damen with his one remaining dagger, Damen had caught him swiftly by the wrist and had quickly snapped it with a brutal twist.

With his attacker incapacitated and weaponless, Damen was undefeatable. He quickly found a hold on the Akielon’s neck and was about to break it when he realized that the raider’s mask had slipped off during the brawl. The face behind the mask was undeniably boyish, and was choking  and turning bluish with Damen’s hand squeezing down on his neck. The Akielon looked barely fifteen.

Damen felt his head spinned. A wave of disgust roiled within him. _A kid,_ he thought. He had almost broke a kid’s neck. As he struggled not to heave, Damen’s hold slacked. The boy took his chance, and pushed Damen off of him. With his remaining good hand, he pulled himself back onto his horse, and retrieved his dagger from where it had fallen.

As he saw the Akielon charging for him, Damen knew that he was in danger. The ringing in his head was gone, but his limbs felt weak, still, he made a desperate grab for his sword.

Right on cue, Nicholas appeared, like a big damned hero.

‘Damen!’ He shouted, and charged straight for the Akielon kid. It wasn’t that he wanted Nicholas to be killed or something, but when Nicholas blow missed, Damen unconsciously wheezed out a breath of relief.

Having only ever been a soldier, Damen thought that he had been hardened against the cruelties war. He had seen way so many faces of people dying before their prime. But in modern warfare, there had always been this false comfort of distance. The soldiers pull triggers. And if some hapless victim was caught by a stray unintentional bullet or bomb sharples, poor luck had been the excuse.

But here, it was knife to throat. There’s no excuse. No shedding of responsibilities. It’s all just so ridiculously messed up, and Damen wondered how Nicholas or any other soldier here could do that, attacking someone half their age.

The melee between Nicholas and the Akielon went on. Nicholas must have been a surprisingly good combater and a rider, to be able to hold his own in a tussle with an Akielon on horse. But a misstep allow the Akielon to slash a cut across his face. The gush of blood blinded Nicholas, giving his attacker the perfect opening for the finishing blow. Just then, the sounds of horn blared in the distant, and the boy’s attention faltered. It had been a short distraction, but when he looked back at Nicholas, he knew, that the window was gone.

The boy hissed a sound of displeasure, not keen at all to abandon this battle. But when the horns blared again, insistently. He took heed, and with a light kick on his horse’s side, he turned and rode away from them in the direction of the horns.

Nicholas pulled at his reins to give chase. But Damen shouted him back.

‘No wait! Just let him go.’

Damen wasn’t quite sure what made Nicholas listened. But he did, and the two men watched the lone Akielon rider disappearing back into the smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally holidays! Hopefully I could get the next four chapters out in the next two months (ok it's unlikely). I am just glad that the plot is heading exactly in the direction I wanted. I think I shld just write first and deal with the tense, the words, the description, those sort of things later. 
> 
> Btw so many, so many random characters. And hint: someone familiar had actually shown up in this chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ‘Don’t sound too happy yet,’ Laurent tsked. ‘King’s horses are breed for the purpose of deterrence, they are Vere’s arsenal in war so to speak, I cannot simply loan them to civilians on a whim. Do you understand Charls, accepting my horse land you on the debt of a prince’s favor.’ 
> 
> It wasn’t a joke, and there was no jest in the prince’s voice, a lesser man might have backed hastily from the deal.

In the aftermath of the raid, the counting began. Ten burnt houses, thirty injured and ten soldiers dead. The Akielons had lived up to their reputation as formidable warriors. Of those that attacked, only three bodies were left, one of whom was surprisingly slain by Laurent himself.

As the villagers around them worked to clear the wreckage, Damen and Nicholas were having their wounds tended to. The wounds themselves were superficial, but both men looked like a mess, especially Damen who was covered in dirt and char due to having actually rolled in them. When Laurent had rode by earlier, the prince actually did a double take and had the audacity to sneer at Damen’s pathetic state before urging his horse ahead to speak to the village head. Riding next to his prince, Jord’s stare was just as condescending.

Damen’s annoyance was aggravated by the observation that Laurent had looked as he always did, barely even ruffled. If not for the bloody splatter across the prince’s armor, Damen would not have believed that they had been in the same battle.

‘Bless the lights! That’s prince Laurent,’ Someone behind him blurted. Damen turned, it was the man who had been running away from the Akielon raider earlier. Damen would have recognized that excessive turban anywhere.

Looking back and forth between Damen and Laurent’s retreating back, the man put two and two together.

‘You are the prince’s Akielon slave,’ the man gasped at Damen, jaw-slacked in starry eyed wonder. Damen did not expect to be recognized by the general populace. In Arles, perhaps. But here, they were at the outskirts, the very fringes of Vere. He might have severely underestimated man’s propensity for gossips.

‘I have been saved by the prince’s slave,’ the man continued in disbelief. It took a couple of finger snaps for Damen to get the man’s attention, ‘Hey.’

‘Please call me Charls, exalted savior.’

‘Okay. Fine. Charls. For the record, I am actually from Vask,’ Damen said. Breteau had just been attacked by Akielons, and Damen did not think it would be a great idea to parade himself as their enemy.

‘And I did not save you. Nicholas over here did. In fact he saved both of us,’ Damen pointed. Had Nicholas not been there in time, Damen would have likely met an untimely death.

‘But I saw it, you were winning there for a moment. I mean you actually had him by the throat,’ Charls recounted excitedly.

‘Maybe. But I was careless.’ Truth be told, Damen wanted no further reminder of that encounter. Now if only he could get this chatty man to shut up about it.

‘Charls, don’t you need to check in with your family?’ he tried.

‘Oh no, there’s no need for that. I am not from around here,’ Charls explained.

‘I am from Vere, but I now live in Patras, hence the turban. It’s the fashion there, and my trademark actually,’ Charls pointed to his hat. ‘Perhaps you may have heard of me - Charls, the turbaned Veretian jeweler,’ he asked expectantly. Damen had not, and neither did Nicholas; and Charls shoulders sagged in blatant  disappointment.

‘Oh well,’ he sighed. ‘You would, had you been born ten years earlier. Back then I was a mere travelling merchant out to make a name of my own. I had to peddle my gems across the continent: Vere, Vask, Patra. I know all the lords and ladies, even the very minor ones. Mention Charls and people would know that that’s me - Charls the turbaned Veretian jeweler.’

But still, Damen and Nicholas stared blankly at him, and Charls’ head drooped further.

‘Those were the good old days,’ he reminisced. ‘It was much safer back then, I will have you know. Not like now. Akielons attacking villages? Bandits in the Karthas? Inconceivable!’   

That proclamation caught Nicholas’s attention. ‘You were at the Karthas? Whatever made you decided to go there? It’s not safe.’

‘Well my business in Vere is done and I had to get back to Patras some way or another don’t I?’ Charls said defiantly. ‘Definitely not through the Alier forest. Everyone knows that place is infested with cutthroats. And don’t you dare suggest Veretians sellswords. They are worse than thieves. Twice the fees of the brothers, half the decency. I would rather take to the Karthas pass myself than throw good money at those charlatans.’

‘But the Karthas pass is..,’ Nicholas stopped, eyes darting around as if looking for something, or specifically, someone.

‘Cursed?’ Charls chortled. ‘Because of the dead prince? Rumors. Superstition. If I ever find out who has been spreading such baseless lies, I would...’ he spat angrily and balled his fist in display for Damen and Nicholas.  

‘I have travelled through the pass for years, and not once have I seen his Highness’s ghost. And even if he were there, why would prince Auguste haunt poor merchants like me. I have done nothing to him. Not like prince Laurent who...’ Charls said offhandedly, but then his eyes fell on Damen and he immediately gasped and slapped a hand over his mouth.

Prince Auguste. The dead prince. This was the second time that Damen had heard that name mentioned, and he could not helped but asked, ‘Not like Prince Laurent who?’

‘Not like Prince Laurent who…’ Charls stuttered, a tincture of flush spotting the tip of his ears. ‘Who should… most definitely be informed about the bandits. Yes! There are bandits at the Kartha Pass. Vile evil beings. Desecrating the prince’s resting place like that.’

‘That’s not what you were about to say,’ Damen said flatly.

But Charls shook his head vehemently in disagreement. ‘No, no, no. That’s exactly what I wanted to say. Do you know those robbers made me lose my horse? We were being chased and that poor beast fell off the cliff. And those idiots had thought that I, the poor merchant went with it. Hah! As if!’  

‘We are old-blooded merchants, my great grandfather, my grandfather, my father and now I. We know the Karthas pass like we know our gems. Every crack and cut. No blundering highway robber can sniff us out where we choose to hide,’ Charls said with a twitch of his mustache, very clearly proud of his lineage, but then his face fell.

‘Incompetent robbers, we merchants can handle. But the Akielons are bad news. Terrible, terrible news. For trade business and for Vere,’ Charls rubbed his forehead and sighed. ‘I must send word to the union and the brothers. Excuse me, honored saviors, but I have arrangements that cannot be delayed. I could not thank you enough for saving my life today, if you ever visit Patra, look for me at the intersection of the Forge and Market cross, so that I may return the benevolence you have gifted me today.’

And with that Charls turned, shaking his head fretfully as he hurried away.

‘What was that all about,’ Damen muttered under his breath. Charls was like a credit card salesperson armed with a machine gun for a mouth. There was hardly any way for Damen to get a question in when faced with that. Merchant man indeed.

But Nicholas’s attention was not on Charls. He was looking at Damen. ‘You were not careless,’ he said.

‘I was there too. You had him by the throat, but you let him go. Why?’ His eyes on Damen were disapproving and clouded with distrust.  

Damen could lie. It was not the conduct for soldier to soldier, and certainly not as one would, to comrades. Though he wasn’t sure what the man had thought of him, he had come to think of Nicholas as one, that is, a comrade. Which was why he held Nicholas stare and said without the slightest hint of falsehood.

‘I don’t murder kids. Akielon or not.’

Nicholas kept silent as Damen turned and walked away.

 

* * *

 

The inn had been spared from the destruction. The room was small and rustic, and the wooden floor creak with the barest of step. Still Damen could hardly complain, not when there were villagers out there huddling by campfires in the cold.

On the table sat a towel and a bucket of water drawn from the well. While Damen thought those set aside for the prince, he couldn’t really be bothered, and proceeded to immediately wipe his face down. Laurent had not looked like he need a bath. More importantly the prince was not here. Unlike Damen who was alone in the room, and really need to get cleaned.

Damen unbuckled his leather plates and rolled out of his tunic, nose wrinkling at it in disgust before throwing it into some corner of the room. As he bent over to work on the intricate ties to his leather half breeches, cursing once more at the lack of underwear and functioning zips, the door to the room opened abruptly. It was Laurent and Jord, and behind them, Damen could see the innkeeper and the village head hovering anxiously as they awaited the prince’s assessment of the room.

Although mortified with his own state of undress, Damen managed somehow to put on his best poker face, straightened his back and discreetly shifted the towel down over his dick.

Laurent said nothing as he stepped into the room and beckoned the others in as well. He then proceed to have a discussion first about about sentry duties with Jord, then about dinner with the innkeeper, and finally about his condolence and thankfulness for Breteau’s hospitality with the village head. All the while, Damen was standing there butt naked, in a pair of sandals, half leather breeches on his thighs and modestly shielded by a mere a towel. Not to mention, a golden slave collar on his throat. Even without a mirror, Damen knew he must have looked right out of a Chippendales set.

No one said anything of Damen’s presence and barely even showed a hint of emotion other than ardent attention when the prince was speaking. Yet when they thought that no one else was looking, the innkeeper kept shooting furtively glances at Damen’s chest while the village head kept nodding his head seemingly in self-conversation as he stared at Damen’s thighs; and  Jord… did Jord just check out his butt?

The ordeal was not over even after everyone had left, for then, that just left Laurent and him in the room.

‘Do you mind leaving for a while? I need to get clean,’ Damen asked, with a tilt of his head at the door.

‘This is my room,’ Laurent said as he sauntered over to the bed and sat on the mattress testingly, a clear indication that the prince will not be leaving anytime soon.

‘I am not going to wash myself on the corridors,’ Damen groaned, even though he’s quite comfortable in his own skin, exhibitionist was not one of his kinks.

‘I am not asking you to,’ Laurent said nonchalantly. He had rearranged the pillows into a small fort, and had found a comfortable position to recline on. With a slight flicker of hand, he said, ‘Feel free to continue.’

 _Here? In the room? With you sitting there?_ Damen’s eyebrows raised, and he stared at Laurent pointedly, the silent question hung between them.

The prince merely shrugged after making a show of looking around the room and finding nothing amiss. As he looked back at Damen with feigned innocence and a challenging curl on his lips, Damen scowled defiantly.

Damen’s a soldier, not a stripper and definitely not Laurent’s pleasure slave. As tempting as it was to try and see if he could get a reaction out of the permafrost, Damen refused to put on a show for Laurent. If he had, Damen had a niggling suspicion that he himself would likely be the one more affected.

He threw the towel back into the bucket with a light splash, and turned his back to the prince. He worked the ties on his leather breeches, got them free, and threw them onto the table with a thud. Later, he would have to ask Orlant how these gears could be maintained. But for now, there were other matters to attend to.

He set about swiping the grime off his nape, working slowly down his back and chest and finally his thighs and calves. He kept his movement utilitarian, practical, and if he happened to flex his biceps and back muscles a little more than he needed to, well, that’s for himself to know.

Only when he was done did he dare chance a look at the prince. He had expected the prince’s attention to be elsewhere, perhaps reading one of those ubiquitous scrolls that invariably worm themselves into the prince’s hands. But of course, Laurent always defied Damen’s expectation.

The prince had kept his eyes trained on Damen. That much was clear. But as usual the prince’s expression was painfully unreadable. Still, Damen could feel his stomach flipping, and a dull heat scorching painfully through his veins. Laurent had no idea what he was doing to Damen. Hell, Damen himself had no idea what Laurent was doing to him.

‘You missed a spot on your left collar,’ Laurent said, throwing a tunic right at Damen’s face.

As Damen pulled on the tunic and worked the sash around his waist, Laurent was already off the bed and heading for the door.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Dinner,’ was Laurent’s curt response.

‘You know, it would have been great if you could have leave like, I don’t know, ten minutes ago?’ Damen hollered after him.

‘And miss the show?’

‘There was no show,’ Damen gritted, he had made sure there wasn’t one.

They made their way down the steps, bickering in a spar of words. Although Laurent’s responses were more barbs than sentences, it was almost like having a conversation, and Damen was surprised to find it a pleasant development. While Laurent was still far from being affable, it was rare for him to be in such accommodating mood.

The tavern was quiet, which wasn’t that usual given how rural Breteau was. What was unexpected was Charls.

Damen spotted his turban first. It was hard not to. The man himself sat right next to the counter and was chatting in overtly familiarity with the innkeeper. Unfortunately for Damen, Charls had too spotted him and was waving at him intently until he noticed who’s beside Damen and the wave faltered.

‘Prince…Prince Laurent,’ Charls spluttered, mouth opening and gaping like a goldfish as he hastily stood up to greet the prince.

‘My prince, I am so honored to be in your presence. I am Charls, by the way, Charls you know, the one and only. Not as one and only as you though, I mean you are the prince,’ the man was so flustered that he was almost babbling.  

‘Charls? Could you perhaps be Charls the turbaned Jeweller?’ Laurent asked, and Damen felt his eyebrow raised.

‘You knew about me?’ Charls flushed a scarlet red. The merchant looked like he was on the verge of tears.

‘Of course, you and your family had done much to promote Veretian gems,’ Laurent smiled a princely smile, and from that star-stuck look on his face, Charls was obviously smitten.

Over the course of tenderly stewed pork and freshly roasted potatoes, Charls talked animatedly about anything and everything. His travels, his trade, his shop in Patran. While the prince rarely spoke, except for a random question or two, he remained surprisingly engaged.

‘You were in Arles on half moon night. How had you managed to arrive in Breteau earlier than we did?’

‘I may not be travelling as much as my younger days, but roads seldom change and this old brain never forgets,’Charls boasted with a small wink, tapping his finger to his forehead.

‘And there are thousands of them, so many roads and paths that man can walk outside of charted maps if one had bothered to look. Still, it may have helped that my horse’s sire had some Akielon breed in him, not full-blooded of course, it’s hard to come by those these days. But good enough to outlast most.’

The mention of his horse brought a grim bitterness to Charls. ‘Oh that poor dead beast,’ he lamented. ‘However could I make it back to Patran without a horse?’

‘Can’t you get one from the village?’ Damen asked and Charls frowned.

‘I could have bought one or perhaps even borrow one in Marlas. But in Breteau, no one would willingly part with theirs. Believed me, I have asked, and not even the inn master was willing. I suppose I would have to walk.’  

‘Well I could spare one from my troop for your trip to Marlas,’ Laurent suggested and Charls face immediately lit up in unadulterated glee.

‘You Highness!’  

‘Don’t sound too happy yet,’ Laurent tsked. ‘King’s horses are breed for the purpose of deterrence, they are Vere’s arsenal in war so to speak, I cannot simply loan them to civilians on a whim. Do you understand Charls, accepting my horse land you on the debt of a prince’s favor.’  

It wasn’t a joke, and there was no jest in the prince’s voice, a lesser man might have backed hastily from the deal. But it seemed that Charls had been made of much more stuff than that, for his response was for once, befitting of a great merchant, ‘Prince Laurent. Are we peasants not merely thriving on the loans of lands and mines from kings and nobles? My family had made much for ourselves on the favors of past kings, we already knew our debts to be deep and when the time comes for debts to be collected, we never neglect in our dues.’

Laurent must not have expected Charls’ response, for he stilled and peered pensively at Charls, as if he was reassessing the man before him. Charls though, was oblivious and was bright-eyed till the prince next spoke.

‘I will remember what you said. But it was not my intention to have you in my debt. Rather I want to give you a chance to earn my favor. How do you fancy a game of Pai? If you win, you can have a horse. But if you lose, I will have your turban.’

Hearing the prince’s words, Charls blanched and clutched the turban on his head in a deathgrip, ‘My turban? My prince, what need do you have for my turban?’

‘It’s the fashion in Patra, is it not? I have never been to Patra, and I would very much like to experience their culture,’ Laurent replied all business-like, but Damen could not help but be skeptical of the prince’s intention. _Seriously Laurent? A turban?_

‘No! My Highness, I fear that I cannot accede to this gamble. The turban is my heart, my soul, my very trademark. What would Charls the turbaned jeweller be without his turban? I would rather have crawled back to Marlas than to lose my turban,’ Charls exclaimed.

If not for Charls, Damen did know that people could have had such strong emotional attachment to their accessories. Well, now and then as light got into his eyes, Damen would find himself itching for his aviators, but it was not as if he would die without them.

Laurent chuckled then. A vivid little laugh that was all sincerity and Damen’s jaw fell. He couldn’t help but stare back at Charls in awe, who seemed not aware of what he had accomplished. the man had managed to do the impossible. He made Laurent laughed.  

‘I would not have keep it. I would like just to try it on for a while. At the end of this night, win or loss, your turban will be safely on your head.’

Still, Charls appeared adamant, until Laurent gave a further push, ‘Are all merchant rewards not built on a little risk? Think of it Charls, how many merchants could say that they have gambled with a prince? It’s a fifty, fifty.’

Laurent always did have a way with words. His words were the reason for the gold collar on Damen’s throat and for this a crazy road trip of a lifetime. Charls might have been a great merchant, but here before Laurent, the man never stood a chance

The innkeeper bought them a deck, more wine and apple tarts for deserts before retreating back to his kitchen. Damen must have munched on more than his fair share of tarts (he’s manly enough to admit that has a sweet tooth), but neither Charls nor Laurent cared, for they were deeply engrossed in their cards.

Damen still did not know how Pai was played. But he noticed that Charls had a bit of a telltale, and that sometimes, the tip of his ears turned red. And Laurent must have noticed it too, for the game ended with Charls’ turban delivered right into his silky hands.

‘It’s surprisingly heavy,’ the prince said with a twinkle in his eyes as he tested the turban in his hand. Charls looked on, green with unease.

‘It weighs as if there are stones inside,’ Laurent teased as he twirls the turban around, hands circumventing the rims, as if he’s searching for something. Finally he seemed to have found what he’s been looking for and he pulled out a small leathery pouch and lay it on the table. Charls covered his face with both his palms.

 _Oh so that’s it_ , Damen realized. He had been wondering how Charls could have kept his calm with his horse and potentially his goods, over the other side of the cliff.

As the contents of the pouch were poured onto the table, Damen counted rubies and sapphires, big and small, some the sizes of quail eggs. By then Charls was sweating, ‘My Prince, I assure you that the taxes for these have been duly paid. You could check the accounts of the mines. I have nothing to hide. It’s just that gem transport is risky business, and this has been the only way we could keep them safe.’

‘In your turban?’ Damen asked.

‘Yes the real ones in the turban. And the fakes - glasses that I have prepared, I kept them in my bags such that I can bargain with them for my life if I am ever robbed,’ Charls hissed in a low tone, fearful that others could have latched on to his trade secret.  

‘But what’s that?’ Damen asked, amongst the pile of precious stones was a small, thin wooden plate, decorated with brightly coloured paints. He was about to inspect it, but Laurent had reached for it first and then proceed to toy at it intently against the light.

‘The wooden piece is something just as important,’ Charls sighed. ‘In Patra, it’s called a Tali, it's a love token.’

Something must have shown in Damen’s expression, for Charls took one look at his face and explained hurriedly, ‘Oh no, no, no. It’s not for me. It’s for an acquaintance, his young lover is working in Arles, and I am just the messenger.’

Still that was oddly romantic of Charls to play cupid. ‘Young love. How romantic,’ Laurent said as he laid the wooden plate back amongst the pile of gems, casting a lingering look on it, as he swept stones and plate back into the pouch.

‘Charls, you may have lost the bet, but you have earned my favor by showing me something interesting tonight. You shall have your horse as I have promised.’ Laurent smiled as he returned both turban and pouch back to Charls who looked at him surprisedly.

‘But Prince, had you not wanted to try the turban?’ Charls asked.

‘I am having second thoughts on it. I don’t think it suits my style,’ Laurent replied tersely.  

 

* * *

 

 

Damen could tell that something was bothering Laurent.

The prince had not look any different when they retreated for the night. But he had gone still and pensive. The bubbling laughter earlier had seemed more and more like a figment of Damen’s imagination.

Still he was surprised when he heard the creak of wooden floorboard beneath him as the prince stood up from his bed and pulled on his night cloak.

‘Are you going somewhere?’ Damen asked. Through the dark, he could not make out Laurent’s expression.

‘Just for a breather outside. The air in here is stale,’ Laurent replied, throat slightly husked.

‘I don’t think…’ Damen started, but Laurent did not pause for him to finish and Damen hear the sound of the door swinging shut.

‘Shit,’ he cursed, and jumped up. The good thing about being made to sleep on the floor, was that he’s always clothed, and all he had to do was to pull on his sandals.

Laurent had lied. He was not outside, at least not near the vicinity of the inn’s door. There was a guard crouching nearby, but one look, had Damen cursing. The guy had been sleeping on duty, Jord would be livid if he got wind of that.

Damen heard a sound from the back where the stables were at, and he hurried towards it in time to see Laurent strap a rein over a chestnut mare. With a light kick, the prince was riding off. Oh fuck no. Damen scrambled quickly to the next stall where thankfully a black mare was standing, munching on hay. He did not bother with a harness, there was no time, grabbing the mare by the mane, he mounted and galloped after Laurent.

The moon was a waxing gibbous. But the sky was thankfully clear of clouds. The golden tails of Laurent’s cloak gleamed a dull glow beneath frail starlight as they rippled behind him. It was the only light Damen could follow.

Laurent must have heard Damen. But he had not enough care to stop. They were travelling in the direction away from the camp. No one had spotted them. No one else had given chase. It was a bad idea to ride in the dark, and Laurent himself must have known for he stopped the moment the light of the camp had dimmed to a mere twinkling in the distant.

Damen slowed his horse to a trot. The prince was barely few steps ahead.

‘Damen,’ Laurent beckoned. It was the first time the prince had ever acknowledge him by his name. ‘Where you came from, do gods meddle with the affairs of mortal man?’ The prince asked, voice a slight tremble in the wind.

‘I don’t think they care much for man.’ If they had, why the sufferings.

‘But sometimes,’ Damen added gingerly. ‘Sometimes I think they do. Sometimes things happened the way they did, because they had to. I’d like to think that whatever happens, happens for a reason.’

Laurent stayed still, contemplatively. ‘And Do you believe yourself here for a reason?’

'I don't know,' Damen said. Everything in Vere was too different from home. Damen was so far out of his element that it took everything just to not sink. He had not given thought on what he should do here, other than to find a way back. 'But I do hope that I am here for a reason.'

'Hope,' Laurent whispered. 'Don't we all?'

Now that his eyes had gotten used to the darkness, Damen could see him clearly. Underneath the pale moonlight, Laurent’s profile looked hauntingly like that of a sharpened blade. Cold edged, yet dangerously beautiful; and Damen felt his heart pulled taunt like the strings of a bow drawn tight.

As they stood in silence, Laurent had not once look at Damen. The prince had kept his eyes trained on some far away distant, searching for things that Damen could hardly even begin to discern. And he secretly wished then if only Laurent’s eye would stay on him, even for just a brief moment.

‘I’ve cleared my head,’ the prince finally said. ‘We should leave.’

As they made their way back to Breteau, the twinkling light of the camp a shining beacon, Damen could see the silhouette of soldiers riding towards them. They must have realized that Laurent was missing.

It was only when they had gotten too close and too late, did Damen realize how wrong they had been. The riders were masked.

Akielons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's Charls! Note, there's a description of Laurent in the text which i modified slightly from the lyrics of 'Mononoke Hime'. I think it really applies to the situation. 
> 
> I been writing at a much faster pace than I thought, after all holidays don't last. But i am pretty sure that some of the sentences will not make much sense on a second read through. I guess I will deal with those later on.


	9. Chapter 9

Damen wondered if he should have put up more of a fight or a run. But neither he nor Laurent was with weapons, and Akielons were nomadic. Even if he had not been earlier aware of what that word had meant, well, his encounter with that Akielon kid made him. Laurent might be able to, but there’s no way Damen could possibly outride these bastards.

That line of thought brought up a disturbing possibility: It did not have to be the both of them. If Damen could create some disturbance, at least one of them could make it back to the camp. And it should be Laurent. It had to be.

‘I will hold them back,’ Damen turned to the prince.

But Laurent grabbed him and whispered cautiously into his ear, ‘Whatever you are thinking of. Don’t.’

The Akielons were riding forward as they speak, there’s no place for an argument. ‘Look,’ he grabbed Laurent’s hand. ‘I can handle whatever they do to me. Just go!’

Laurent did not waver, ‘This is not me being stubborn. Trust me.’ The prince held his gaze steady on Damen, as the riders closed in on them.

‘Running would have been the dumbest idea,’ he said as faceless Akielon soldier pulled them apart, and Damen felt this wrist bounded together behind his back.

 

* * *

 

They got to remain on their horses. That much Damen was grateful for. More savagery could have been dealt by simply dragging them behind horses. Damen had seen those on old cowboy movies and the protagonist did not end up looking good. Of course there had been some customary manhandling, but once the Akielons sensed how little of a struggle Damen and Laurent had put up, the violence ceased. It was as if they couldn’t be bothered. Perhaps Laurent was right, staying put might had been the better option.

With the blindfold on, Damen couldn’t see where they were going. Neither could he see Laurent. And that’s what worried him the most. He was surprised though to catch bits and pieces of conversations amongst the riders. It seemed almost that Akielons and Veretians shared the same language.

_We should kill the slave. He’s a disgrace to his blood._  
  
_Leave him to his tribes. I don’t want to dirty my hands._

_I say we should stop these raids and just attack Delpha._

_Then they would just kill our brothers and sisters._

_They are already dead!_

_But Hypermenestra said..._

_What does that old woman know._

Their disagreements continued. And Damen felt the inkling of sunlight hit his face. It had dawned.

 

* * *

 

Damen squinted as his blindfold was removed. The sun was a huge ball of light in the sky. A shadow casted over him, and Damen looked up to see an imposing figure of a man hauling him and dragging him into a white yurt. He was relieved when he found Laurent there, looking none the worse for wear. As Laurent noticed him, he lifted a finger on to his lip discreetly, and Damen nodded.

Men and women soon flooded the room. Now that Damen had more specimens to compare himself to, he could see the resemblance. Dark haired, olive skinned, broad shouldered and chiseled jaws. No wonder people had thought that Damen was Akielon.

Unlike Veretians who seemed inclined to dress as little as possible, Akielon dressed for protection from the harsher conditions they lived in. They wore long scarves that wound round their head and neck. On their faces were masks, painted with bright colours of maroon and azure. Their sleeves rolled down to their wrist, and functional looking trousers hugged till the calves of both men and women. Trousers. Damen had not thought that there were trousers in this world. Had the situation not been as dire as it was, Damen would have been tempted to beg for a pair.

The eyes that strayed to Damen were unfriendly and full of disdain. Some spat at his feet. While the rest shunted by him as they walked to stand around the circumference of the tent. There were murmurs, and curses. But these silenced as a group of people stepped in, headed by an elderly man and a woman in red.

As he took the seat at the head of the tent, the elderly man pointed at them with a questioning look directed at the woman. The woman nodded.

‘We know who you are,’ the woman in red spoke first. ‘Prince,’ she pointed a bony finger at Laurent. Damen’s first thought was that perhaps someone had sold them out. Other than the richness of his cloak, there wasn’t much to pinpoint Laurent’s identity. He could have just been any other Veretian lord.

But then the woman pointed at Damen. ‘Man who came via the waters.’

‘What?’ Damen balked, heart stuttering. Beside him, Laurent inhaled sharply.

‘Seer.’ The prince whispered in disbelief, face, an ashy shade of grey. He looked stunned as he stared at the woman before them, yet when he caught Damen’s gaze, his lip immediately pursed and his face clamped shut. With his mask back in place, the prince looked determinedly away, from both woman and Damen.

The woman ignored Laurent, neither acknowledging nor refuting his claim. She addressed Damen instead, ‘Man from the water. Man from far away. Man called Damen. You are the one we seek. You are the one who will liberate our children.’

‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’ It was the best response that Damen could muster.

This time it was the elderly man who spoke. ‘The Veretians have taken our people. Our seer says you will bring them back.’

‘What do you mean? Perhaps you had remember it wrongly? As I recall, you were the ones who abducted the people of Mellos,’ Laurent questioned cooly. Even in a tent full of enemies, Laurent’s sarcasms were unrelenting.

‘You know very well what we meant,’ a broad shouldered man gruffed angrily as he stepped up to Laurent, hands on his sword threateningly.

‘Kastor!’ The elderly man barked.

Gritting his teeth, the man called Kastor retreated grudgingly, but still his eyes remained drilled on Laurent.

‘Veretians may think they own Delpha. But we of the Ka tribe knows it differently, Delpha belongs to no man. When the oasis run dry, our herdsman roam out to the plains and they return when it brims. This year both man and animals had not return,’ the elderly man rumbled gravelly.

‘And you think we seized them?’ Laurent snapped.

‘We know your people did. A trade for a trade. If you return our people, we will return yours.’

‘I do not know where your people went. If your seer professed to know as much, could she not scry for them?’

‘You know that is not the way it works,’ the woman in red reproached the prince softly. ‘We see only what fate is willing to show. We have no control. The sight is our blessing and our curse.’

She then turned to Damen. ‘You will bring our people back.’

‘But I don’t…’

‘Enough! Hypermenestra, why do we waste time speaking to Veretians,’ Kastor erupted. ‘Have the great war not taught us that the words of these serpents are not to be trusted. We have their prince. I say we ransom him for our people.’

‘Then all shall be lost.’ Hypermenestra’s eyes glazed over. ‘Our people and her dreams. All lost.’

‘No they will not. Hypermenestra you see too much of dreams, but too little of what is in front of you. That’s your flaw. We have the Veretian prince, if he does not know where our people are, his lord would.’

‘Father,’ Kastor turned to the elderly man. ‘Order us to ride to Marlas.’ Kastors words must have captured the exact sentiments of the other riders, for sounds of agreement immediately echoed after him.

Beside him, Hypermenestra shook her head despondently. She turned her otherworldly stare on Damen. ‘It’s up to you now. Choose, or you will lose him.’

Damen looked at Laurent. The prince was watching the Akielons detachedly, a tight smile still curling at the corner of his lips, but the mirth did not reach his eyes. Damen knew that look. Sometimes when things get really bad out there, when the odds were stacked so out of favor, that one could not help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. His best friend had worn that look, Damen alongside of him, right before they rode out to that fuck-up of a mission. Of the two of them, only Damen had returned.

It was strange thought, but a contemptuous look had suit the prince so much better.

‘Wait!’ Damen shouted once, then twice, till the attention of the Akielons were on him. ‘We don’t know where they are now, but we can find them.’

Kastor was on him in a second. ‘How?’

‘Give us time.’ Damen shrugged. ‘We go back, we investigate and we will find them.’

Kastor barked a harsh laugh. ‘You lie. This is a ruse for us to release you and the prince.’

‘It’s not a ruse. I swear.’

‘Your words mean nothing.’

Kastor was too obdurate of a man. But he was not the one in charge. The elder had not accede to Kastor’s request. He had not agreed with Kastor’s plan, that much Damen could infer. But neither could the elder come out openly in favor for the seer given the sentiment of his people. Instead, the man had merely watched with clear, shrewd eyes at the events unfolding before him, as if he’s waiting for an opportunity to turn the crowd in his own favor. Damen would have to keep talking, dragged it out, there must be something that could be found in his words.

‘I am not lying. How can I prove to you that I am not lying?’

‘There’s no way…’

‘You duel.’ A clear voice interrupted. It had come from the sides, and when Damen looked in the direction of the voice, he found a familiar mask staring back at him. ‘We Akielons duel to preserve our honor. You, man from far away, fight to protect your honor.’ As the Akielon removed his mask, Damen indeed recognized him, it was the Akielon kid from before.

‘Little brother? What are you saying?’ Kastor chided in surprise.

‘Your brother is right,’ This time it was the elder who spoke.

‘Show us your worth, boy.’

Sure. But first, he would need some trousers.

 

* * *

 

After he had changed, Damen was led out of the tent to a ring where Kastor and the Akielons awaited.

He spotted Laurent out of the corner of his eyes, sitting right by the sides of the elder and the seer as if he was their honoured guest. But the prince’s bounded wrist broke that illusion, and it was clear as day that Laurent was present as prisoner.

A row of weapons had been laid out on the ground next to the ring. Sword, axes, daggers, halberds, bows.

‘Take your pick,’ Kastor grunted. ‘It will not make any difference.’

‘What are the rules?’

‘No rules. The first to concede loses.’

Damen stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders with a crack. ‘Then I suggest we take no weapon.’

Kastor bared his teeth in a feral grin. ‘Scared of a little blood? You’ve picked stupidly. I am the best wrestler in this tribe.’

‘That’s cause you haven’t met me.’ And Damen lunged.

They met in the middle, arms locked on each others’ shoulders and Damen found himself grinning. It was rare to meet someone who matches him on raw strength. They remained like this for a brief moment, neither willing to relent. The fiery sun blazed upsky, a constant burn on their backs. The crowd was a silent blur of faces, or perhaps not, for Damen could only hear the pulsing of blood in his ears.

Damen was the first to ease his hold, and Kastor roared, pouncing forward to take a swipe a Damen’s knee. But Damen had anticipated that, had betted on it actually. As soon as Kastor moved, Damen twisted his body to the side and pulled on his opponent’s sleeves. And as Kastor went down, Damen wasted no time to mount him. Elbowing Kastor’s head into the dust, and hooking his right forearm beneath Kastor’s right shoulder, Damen had Kastor in an arm lock.

‘Concede or I will break your arm,’ Damen growled.

‘As if you could.’ Kastor struggled.

A smaller man might be been thrown off, but Damen had matched Kastor in strength and size, and his hold never wavered. Kastor would break soon, Damen knew. He himself, had been on the receiving end of this move numerous times in cadet school, and it always gets progressively more painful.

Damen rolled them over, giving him a better grip to twist Kastor’s arm which gave an ominous groan. Kastor grunted in pain.

‘I am serious. I will break it. Give up.’

‘Never.’

Kastor’s stubbornness and pride will lead to his fall one day, Damen thought. And if Kastor had thought that Damen’s bluffing, he’s wrong. Damen’s face hardened.

‘Stop,’ A sword tip was suddenly pointed down at his throat. ‘Let my brother go.’

Damen did not ease up on his hold. ‘I thought this was a one-on-one.’

‘It was, you have won,’ The Akielon kid spoke.

 

* * *

 

‘Little brother, I have not lost,’ Kastor gnarled as he got on his feet, swiping away Damen’s outreached hand with a scowl.

‘Not you, brother. It was I who have lost.’ The Akielon kid turned to Damen. ‘I was not sure before. But now that I have seen you fight, I am. You could have kill me that time. Yet you did not.’

‘I did not,’ Damen admitted after a stretch of silence. And the kid glared with a tight scowl, ‘Akielons take life debts seriously. I will vouch for you on my honour.’

Kastor had grumbled and complained, but a few soft words with his brother had finally brought the man around. Still he was very adamant that only Damen could leave. And if Damen had not return by the third day, or had return with soldiers instead of Akielons the deal would be called off. And the tribe would march for Marlas with Laurent as their ransom, with or without Damen.

‘It would not go as easy,’ Laurent said grimly as he handed Damen a letter for Jord. The prince was no longer bounded but under the heavy security of brawny Akielon riders, it’s unlikely that he would be going anywhere soon.

‘Three days is not a lot of time.’ Damen agreed.

‘That’s not what I meant.’ Damen looked at Laurent questioningly.

‘It’s always much harder to find the truth when someone is so intent on twisting it.’

‘What do you mean?’ But the prince was tight lipped, brows knitted in a furrow.

‘I may be wrong. But remember what you must do Damen, above all else, get the damned letter to Jord.’

 

* * *

 

A small squadrons of riders had brought Damen back out to the plains blindfolded. _Three days_ they said, _three day and then we will take you back._ When the blindfold was removed, he could see the fires of the Veretian camp afar. As he stared at the flicker of light, Damen recalled the words of the Seer right before leaving the tribe.

‘Man from the water,’ she had called to him fondly. ‘It is not my habit to meddle with the dreams of another. But for you, I will make an exception. Heed my words, your prince walks on the tightrope of fates and only you can save him.’

‘From what?’ Seriously, the woman need to be clearer with her words. 

But the seer just looked at him blankly, a sad little half smile playing on her lips. ‘From himself of course. Now ride and bring my people back.’

Damen rode towards Breteau, a thousand little thoughts running through his head. Maybe he was really brought here for some reason. Maybe some higher up entity had thought it a good idea to send Damen to Laurent. It must be one hell of a joke those gods are playing on them, Laurent had made it absolutely clear that he hated Damen’s guts. And it was mutual, for the prince drove Damen crazy like no one else ever did.

It infuriates Damen that despite all this, he just could not bring himself to leave the prince alone. All that smugness, that sarcasm, that intelligence, wrapped up in one pretty blond package. Damen knew what that does to his heart. He didn’t like it one bit, but neither could he stop it. And if he had been a little more honest, he did not want to. It was like drowning in shallow waters.

Fine. Damen would make sure that Laurent’s safe. From the Akielons, from the plague, from Jokaste, from Laurent himself, whatever the heck that is. And after the prince's safety is secured, then Damen will go home.

 

* * *

 

It was Orlant who found him first. A snarl on his face as he grabbed Damen by the front of his tunic, ‘You big oaf! Where the hell had you been? Where’s the prince?’

‘The Akielons have him. Where is Jord? Laurent needs him.’

Upon hearing that, Orlant’s face ashed before twisting with rage. ‘Did you really do it? I trusted you. How could you fucking do that?’ 

‘Do what?’ Damen was taken aback by the venom behind the guard’s words.

‘Do what? Betray the prince! You sold the prince to your people, you filthy Akielon pig.’

‘What? hell no! Look I know how I look, but seriously I am not from Akielon. And I would never betray Laurent. Now bring me to Jord, I can explain everything.’

‘Oh you bet I will bring you to the captain. We have been running mad when we found the prince’s gone. You have so much shit to explain yourself out of.’

A huge misunderstanding seemed to have brewed in the short time when Damen and Laurent were gone. Word around was that the prince had been abducted by his slave and delivered right into the hands of those Akielon barbarians. It was an act of utmost treachery - a slave betraying his master whom he had sworn to obey.

Damen did not blame them for having such speculations. It was a logical conclusion, given that mixed-blooded or not, most people still thought of Damen as an Akielon; and both prince and slave had went missing in the dead of the night without even a single note. Now that he reflected on his action, it certainly did invite suspicion. Damen didn’t realize how lucky he had been for Orlant to have found him first. As they made their way through the camp, the other soldiers had looked as if they would much rather have gutted Damen right on the spot. But Orlant stayed close, jaw clenched intimidatingly, daring anyone to even inch a step in their way.

They entered a well guarded tent where Damen was surprised to find Jord talking intimately with none other than governor Aimeric. The governor must have made his way to Breteau upon hearing of Laurent’s disappearance. When both men saw him entering, their eyes widened in anticipation.

‘Slave! Have you returned with the prince?’ Aimeric demanded frantically. The youth looked so spooked that Damen felt sorry to disappoint him.

‘The Akielons have him.’ Immediately, Jord tensed, staring at Damen in disbelief, ‘What have you done?’ 

‘None of the things you are thinking of right now.’ Damen handed Laurent’s letter to Jord hurriedly. ‘Read this. It will explain everything.’

‘Letter from the prince? Give it to me,’ Aimeric requested and swiftly plucked the letter off Jord’s hand. Tearing open the wax seal, the governor perused the letter, a look of disbelief gracing his face as he read through it.

‘It’s written here that the Akielon think that Veretians have kidnapped their herdsmen. They want us to return their people before they would return the prince and the villagers from Mellos.’ Aimeric blanched and looked at Damen imploringly, ‘They are holding the prince as a hostage.’ Damen answered with a grim nod. ‘Governor we have three days. We need to send the soldiers to find these kidnappers now.’

Aimeric read through the letter once more, contemplating over it carefully. When he next looked at Damen, his resolved seemed to have hardened.

‘Guards, come forth immediately!’

The governor ordered, and the guards situated outside of the tent rushed in at once. Damen felt a sense of relief rushing through him. As governor of Delfeur, Aimeric would be the best man Damen could have hoped for to lead the search. The Akielons would be found, the seer had said so, and Laurent would be returned safely.

It had not occurred to Damen though that Aimeric could have had other ideas in mind.

‘Guards, capture this impertinent slave at once!’

‘What?’ Damen looked on stunned, as guards poured forth and pushed him roughly to the ground. He looked up at the governor and found him unrecognizable, for the young man’s pretty visage had turned cold and malicious.

‘Had you thought us so blind to believe in your blatant lies?’ Aimeric glowered at him darkly.  
‘The Akielons had been itching for another war with Vere but we had not given them any reason to. These allegations of kidnappings are just part of their sham.’

‘No it’s the truth. Look at the letter! Laurent wants the soldiers to… ‘

‘The letter was written under duress!’ Aimeric spat with disgust. ‘Do you think I would believe any of these words were written by the prince willingly had he not been held under knifespoints? Now tell us where you have the prince taken to. If the Akielon wants a war, we would bring the war to them.’

‘No! They have Laurent and the civilians, if you attack now, they would…’

‘You refuse now, but soon you will squeal like the swine you are. Take him to the racks,’ the governor ordered.

‘No wait. Wait, Jord!’ But having brought into the words of the governor, the captain refused to even look at him.

As the guards dragged Damen out struggling, he could see it clearly now, the hint of a smirk at the corner of Aimeric’s face. It’s always much harder to find the truth when someone is so intent on twisting it. Damen’s guts twisted as he recalled back on Laurent’s words. Laurent might have been right, Aimeric’s no blundering child.

 

* * *

 

It was the whips of course. How unimaginative. Damen choked ruefully as the gags muffled his screams. If Laurent had been here, he might have started slower, he might have started with Damen’s finger. Damen couldn’t tell which was worse.

They had wasted no time tearing the tunic off Damen. It was good though, that he still had the Akielon trousers on. Not that it would offer much protection. And shit, getting the blood out of it would be a huge pain. To think that he had worn his favorite pair. It was ironic that these nonsensical thoughts helped kept Damen sane. He tried counting but had to stop after the fifth lash. His back seared and he could no longer even tell when blow had met skin, or if there were any skin left. All he could hear were the resounding cracks of whip.

He was only half aware when the whip had stopped and urgent voices flooded his ears.

_Leave the slave. We need everyone now. The supplies and the stables. Hurry!_

As the footsteps faded and the whip laid forgotten by his side, Damen thought then that he ought to take the opportune chance to escape, but his wrist felt numb and his eyelids felt heavier than they should have been. Maybe a short nap would be good, but the moment he closed his eyes, images of that blue, unwavering gaze assaulted him, and Damen blinked open. _Laurent_ , he recalled. _Laurent needed him._ If the Veretians attacked the tribes now, the Akielons would have thought themselves betrayed by Damen. Then there would be no more guarantee to the prince's safety. 

_Your prince walks on the tightrope of fates and only you can save him_

He tried the ropes again. But they were bounded tight. It must have been, otherwise the soldiers would not have left him so unguarded. ‘Fuck,’ Damen cursed. 

He heard the brush of footsteps again, and the swishing sound of a sword pulled from its sheath. ‘Hold still,’ someone said and Damen thought he recognized that voice. It was a gamble. The blade could have been meant for him, but still he held his breath and counted. In the next moment, the ropes around his wrist fell away. Cleanly severed in two by a sharp blade. 

‘Come on, we need to move quickly,’ Strong arms hauled him up. Damen hissed as he draped his arm over broad shoulders clothed in green livery. His legs were numb, but they were thankfully spared from the whips. Otherwise it would have been sheer torture to escape on them. 

‘Why?’ Damen asked as they couch amongst the shadows. The wind smelled strongly of smoke and ashes, it seemed that Breteau just can’t catch a break from fires. From where they were at, Damen could see tongues of orange flames engulfing what had been the supplies tent and the stables. The horses were running amok, and so were the soldiers who were chasing after them on foot.

‘Not now. We need to get out of here,’ beside him, Nicholas gritted.

They turned around a corner. But some guard was already there, as his face caught the lights of the flames. Damen realized that it was Orlant. That man sure had a knack for sniffing Damen out . 

'You!'

Damen pounced and wrapped a hand over the guard's mouth to stop him from calling out more guards. 

'Listen, I did not betray the prince,' the desperation in Damen's voice might have convinced the guard, for he stopped struggling.

'Aimeric, the governor. I don't know what'sup with him, but he stinks. No matter what, do not let the soldiers ride out to the Akielons. Otherwise the villagers and Laurent are as good as dead.'

_The slave had escaped._ Someone shouted in the distance. Seemed like time was running out for Damen.

Beneath him, Orlant had stopped struggling and was saying something. Damen removed his hand hesitatingly.

'I don't trust you,' Orlant hissed, and Damen face fell.

'But I trust Aimeric even less. The prince tolerated you, but he detested that guy.'

'I will get Laurent back. I swear.' 

'Damn well you do. If something ever happened to the prince. I don't care where you hide. I will snuff you out from the ends of the world and I will tear you bits by bits. Now go.' 

 

* * *

 

Nicholas had prepared horses. Fast beasts, that approached when Nicholas whistled and hooves that glided nimbly across the slopes of the plains even without a steady hand holding onto their reins. Damen was sweating profusely. He had no idea where they were going, but Nicholas seemed to know. Now that they had put some distance between themselves and the camps, and the adrenaline had resided, the gnawing pain on his back tormented Damen. He knew that his hands must be shaking when he took the waterskin that Nicholas had handed to him. But for whatever it’s worth, he tried to keep his face blank and unyielding. Suck it up Damen, he repeat to himself over and over like a litany, you’ve had worse.

‘I think we should clean the wound,’ Nicholas said after a quick glance at Damen’s back. ‘I have some spirits...’

‘Do it.’ Damen clenched his jaw, but as the splash of cool liquid rained on his back, it burnt as if acid had been poured onto his wounds and he grunted in pain.

‘Who are you really?’ It really wasn’t a good time for difficult conversations, but Damen had wanted a distraction.

‘I’m not really Nicholas.’ Not-Nicholas said steadily as he dripped more alcohol onto Damen’s back. ‘In the tongues of my mother, the people of my tribe called me Nikandros.’

‘You are Akielon?’

‘I don’t looked like it, don’t I. The demarcation between Akielon and Veretian are not as clear as what people would like to think. Our tribe used to trade with Vere and Patras, and somehow along the way our blood mixes. And then you get tribesman like me.’

‘An inbetween.’ Nikandros mused. 

‘What are you doing in Marlas?’

‘I have been looking for my sister,’ Nikandros said. ‘She and her friends were to deliver goods to the tribe of Tsu, but the Tsu people never saw them arrive, and neither had they return to our tribe.’

It was the same story, and Damen dreaded, ‘Were they snatched by Veretians?’

Nikandros nodded soberly. ‘One of them escaped. We found him wandering in the desert, parched and half out of his mind. He was cursing the Veretians till the very end. And this.’ Nikandros unfolded a leather cloth, ‘we found this on him.’

As moonlight spilt on it’s contents, Damen stared at it. He did not expect to find this thing here. But now that he had, it sure put things into a whole new perspective. And Damen's head started spinning. 

 

_The plague. Healthy men in the prime wasting away to a strange diseases._   _Nightmares that bordered on insanity._

 

‘We have to get to Laurent,’ he said.

‘The prince?’

 

_Missing Akielons. People that would not be missed in Vere were they to fall off the grid._

 

‘Some Akielon tribe has him,’ Damen struggled to recall the name. ‘That tribe, the one with Kastor! And Hypermenestra!’

‘Kastor? The Ka Tribe took the prince? I knew it, that hot headed bull.’ Nikandros cursed.

 

 

_Governor Aimeric. That little fucktard._

 

Damen might have lost more blood than he had thought. Everything seemed to be spiraling around him. But he could not afford to go down now. Not when he’s finally making sense of the events for the past few days. The plague, the curse, the missing Akielons.  _And Charls._

Hypermenestra wasn't kidding at all. It just wasn't in the way Damen had envisioned. No, it might have been way more than that. 

As he ran and mapped the events again, he could not believe the crazy ideas going through his head. It was impossible, they were just too absurd. But if they were indeed true, then that was one helluva crazy plan. He could not assess this through cold logic, hope, he has to hope that it will turned out to be true.

 

_You will bring our people back._

 

‘I think I know where your people had been taken to.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Without Jokaste meddling with his head, I wanted to portray Kastor more sympathetically, but he still came out as a bit of a jerk. Still my headcanon for this fic is that Kastor has a soft spot for his younger brother, although he’s too embarrassed to show it openly. And Nikandros! Did it come as a surprise or had it been too obvious? I mean come on, Nicholas?


	10. Aimeric

It was all according to plan, Aimeric thought, as he carefully inked the parchment before him. When the Akielons had attacked Mellos, he had been worried for a brief moment that his carefully laid plans had been unravelled by those barbarians. But that worry soon dissipated and had evolved instead into the most satisfactory surprise.

In the years that he’s been here, Aimeric had come to hate the south. The crying of cicadas in the late summers, and that perpetual sultriness that clung to his skin, he had detested them all. But most of all, Aimeric hated that he could not leave.

 _You are the only one I trusted_ , those words had been whispered so sweetly into his ears, and Aimeric had succumbed willingly. At that moment though, he could not have imagined how long it would take for their plans to bear fruits.

Everyone knew how the prince hated the south. How the prince had lost both mother and brother in that ill-fated hunting trip a decade of summers ago. Despite that, Aimeric had thought the prince would have to return sometime or another, if not for pleasure, but at least, to pay his respect to the queen’s grave near the fortress. But the prince had sat unmovable from his stronghold in Arles. All invitations, which Aimeric had so carefully written, ignored, or as some messengers had recounted, burnt.

It had taken so much maneuvering to finally have the prince in Marlas, away from his most staunch supporters and further away from his personal army up in the West. So much time wasted. But it was well worth the effort.

When the slave had reported that the Akielons had kidnapped the prince, Aimeric had wanted to gloat. And that letter. Oh that letter. The prince may not have foreseen the plan, but he had seen through Aimeric of course, a warning line in between words for his captain to keep an close eye on the governor. If only the prince’s captain wasn’t such a fool for a pretty face, and had insisted instead to read the letter directly instead of hearing it through another’s mouth.

Now with the missive up in ashes, no one would be able to detect Aimeric’s deceit. The slave might have sensed it, but what could one mud blooded mongrel do except to escape far away and disappear back into the Patran slaves den. Gold and payments aside, no slave has ever been that loyal to his master.

‘Governor,’ his captain called to him from outside the tent. ‘Our scouts have sighted the Akielons near the perimeters.’

It had been two days. They had not found the tribe, but the tribe had come to them. Now if only Aimeric could play his cards right - some well crafted words, a well placed arrow and Laurent, prince of Vere, like his mother and brother before him, would haunt the Delfeur plains forever.

That man would be the most pleased.

And surely then, he would summon Aimeric once more.

 

* * *

 

The Akielons were undoubtedly fast riders. Aimeric could sight the swiftest of them in the horizon, a cloud of dust trailing behind. Jaded with the unending, undulating grassland that Delfeur has to offer, the governor could not have want for a finer sight.

Tales had once told of the fierce warriors that emerged from the deserts, masked demons who obliterated everything that dare hinder their path. But those glorious days for the tribes had long perished. As scattered as they were today, no tribe could in numbers alone have rivalled the two hundred cavalries that Aimeric had commandeered from Marlas. Not to mention fifty of the prince’s finest guards, which he had so kindly left behind.

The Akielons rode on deliberately. For a moment it seemed as though they would descend upon them as would a flock of scavengers. But as they approached, the lead lifted his hand, and the mellow sound of a horn echoed behind him, all other riders obediently slowed to a stop and a tense buffer stretched between Akielons and Veretians.

‘Where is our prince?’ Aimeric shouted from behind the safety of the front lines, unfamiliar Akielon vocals rolling awkwardly off his tongue.

The Akielons held silent, a row of faceless masks staring eerily at them. Had they not understood him? Aimeric wondered. Akielon tongues were so rarely practiced in Vere these days even amongst the southern nobles. Perhaps his pronunciation was off.  ‘Where is Prince Laurent?’ He tried again and the lead rider chuckled.

‘Was that Akielon? My my, Governor, you really need to try harder. I could hardly comprehend what you were saying,’ the rider replied in Aimeric’s own Veretian tongue. Honeyed voice accentuating each syllabus elegantly. Aimeric recognized that voice.

It couldn’t be.

The rider removed his mask, tossing it aside with a graceful wave of hand. As he unwound the scarf from his head, his hair glimmered under amber rays, like a golden crown. ‘But I must say, this has been a wonderfully warm reception you have prepared for me.’

‘Prince Laurent,’ Aimeric stuttered. The prince was supposed to be a hostage. Aimeric had expected for him to at the very least, be trussed up like a turkey at a feast. But the prince had looked fine, glowing in fact, and perfectly at ease with those desert demons who likewise seemed perfectly content to trail behind him. It was as if the prince had tamed them in the short time that he was gone.

‘You look surprised. Did you not call for me?’ Around Aimeric the soldiers jittered uneasily. The situation had taken for a surreal turn. The governor had prepared them for a skirmish and a rescue, not the prince riding in hale and hearty parading in those exotic clothing as if he just had the best excursion in a foreign land.

‘Your Highness, what’s going on? Why are you with the Akielons?’

‘Negotiations of course,’ the prince replied merrily. ‘The tribe has agreed to return our people.’

Some of the soldiers murmured in sheer surprise. Upon a closer inspection, there were indeed people dressed in Veretians clothing amongst the Akielon riders. They looked weary and travel-stained but otherwise relatively unharmed.

‘You look pale, Governor. Are you not joyous to see the villagers safe and sound?’

‘No, of course I am,’ Aimeric smiled rigidly. ‘I just wonder what terms have been drawn to guarantee their return.’

‘Just one. You,’ the prince smiled ruefully and Aimeric eyes widened. ‘Guards seize the traitor named Aimeric at once!’

For a brief second, none of the soldiers moved. Jord had hesitated, caught between orders and emotions. But then some guard in the prince’s rank flanked him and yelled to the others, ‘You have heard the prince.’ That shook Jord out of stupor, and when Aimeric looked at the captain once more, he could tell that his hesitation was gone.

His horse pranced in tension, and Aimeric coiled the reins tightly around his hand as he glared at the encroaching guards. ‘Your Highness, what are you saying? The Akielons have messed with your head.’

‘Messed with my head? Perhaps. But I assure you governor, those wine they had plied on me had done no harm, unlike how you have messed with the head of my people. Damen,’ the prince called out and an imposing man approached from behind him. As the mask was removed, the face behind was distinctively Akielon though the hair was shorn short. It was the mongrel slave, the one who had escaped.

‘Slave,’ Aimeric hissed. ‘What lies have you fed your master?’

‘No lies. Only the truth.’ Damen said looking at Aimeric pointedly. ‘There was never any plague in Defleur. It was poison.’

 _He knows_ , Aimeric thought in alarm. But that was impossible. The plant was not native to Vere nor Vask. Even in the merchant city it was rare to come by. How could a mere slave have known about them?

The slave rolled open a leather pouch and tossed its content out open on the ground between soldiers and riders. ‘I believe you recognize these.’

Aimeric gave them a cursory glance though he has no need to. He remembered exactly how they had looked like. He had received them as a gift from that man along with the message. _Just something to help you along,_ it had said _._ Round husks containing seeds that bloom into beautiful petals of violet and red. That man had not mention where they had come from, except to make notes of its use and potency. He must have known that Aimeric would not question hi

‘Chalis,’ Aimeric said with false calmness. ‘These are the chalis I have procured for the sick. Had you thought that they are poison? How ridiculous. Ask any healer and they would tell you that these are remedies from the far east.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Damen nodded. ‘These chalis, where I come from, we call them differently but they look and work exactly the same. They were used in medicines for a long time before we realize how addictive they are. If you don’t know what “addictive” means, it means the more people use it, the more they crave for it. And once they get hooked on it, if they were to suddenly stop, that’s when they start experiencing those withdrawal symptoms: fevers, chills, nausea, vomiting. This is exactly what’s been happening to the people in Defleur. They weren’t sick. You were poisoning them with chalis. Slowly and persistently over a long period of time.’

It was as the slave had guessed. Aimeric had tradesman peddling panacea around villages. Tinctures that could supposedly alleviate the most enduring of pain and aches. And the villagers, mostly labourers in fields, had gladly bought into them. All Aimeric had to do then was to wait for the people to sink, for the healers to unwittingly ply them with more chalis, until eventually the deaths start appearing, The news would have spread all the way to the council. A decree from the council would have given the prince no alternative but to return.

‘You accuse me falsely,’ Aimeric put on his most affonted face. ‘I am no healer and I do not know what you speak of. I had only procure them from Patra for they appear to help. My only fault it seems is that I care too much about my people. If your claims are true and the people of Delfeur are indeed poisoned by these plants then the culprits are to found elsewhere. ’

‘We did find them elsewhere,’ the prince drawled. ‘All the way up in the Karthas pass where we also found your private little garden.’

‘These chalis grow easily, but the harvesting of its sap requires much labour,’ the slave spoke again. ‘You needed people to do your dirty work but you can’t have the villagers know your secret. That’s why you have your underlings kidnapped the Akielon people to work the plantations in the Kathas.’

The Akielons were an afterthought. Aimeric knew that the tribes herdsman, usually younger children roam the plains occasionally with the animals. That just made them easy targets.

‘Then to prevent anyone from going near that place, you spread some crazy rumors about it. And if anyone happens to be in that area, you just have your underlings kill them. And it had worked usually, but this time round they missed one, Charls.’

Prince Laurent snapped his fingers, and a couple of riders approached. Behind their horses were men blindfolded, bound and gagged. They were promptly hauled over and thrown on the ground before the Veretian troops. ‘A suggestion, never hire mercenaries from Vere, they are squeamish and squeal rather easily. I’ve let them kept their tongues, they have told us so many interesting stories about you.’

‘It’s your lost Governor Aimeric,’ Prince Laurent taunted.

Veretians royals was said to rule with the mandate of gods. There may have been some truth to the legends, Aimeric thought. Their plan was flawless. But somehow the circumstances had conspired in the prince’s favor. Still if the legends were to be believed, then perhaps not all was lost. Afterall royal blood also flow within that man’s veins and Aimeric do not believe that the gods would play favoritism. He raised his hand.

Amongst the soldiers, someone released an arrow heading straight for the prince.

‘Laurent!’ the slave yelled, as he moved to shield his master. The arrow caught him squarely by the side and he went down. Aimeric really ought to have slaughter him when he had the chance to. But it’s too late for that. Now with no one else guarding the prince’s side, the next arrow will get him.

All of a sudden, Aimeric felt a spike of pain. As he looked down, he saw an arrow protruding from his abdomen. _What?_ He thought, a wave of panic flooded through him and he felt himself falling off the horse. Through the corner of his eyes, he could see the guards grappling with the soldier, the one who had shot both arrows. The informant who was sent by that man.

 _Oh so that was it_ , Aimeric thought. It wasn’t just the prince, that man had intended for Aimeric to remain in Defleur as well. Beside him, Jord was trying to stop his bleeding. His mouth was moving, and he was saying something, but Aimeric could no longer hear him well. _What a stupid man,_ Aimeric thought sadly. The governor had fallen so deep that he was already beyond saving.

_If only they could have met sooner._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mention it by name, but I think it should be pretty obvious what plant I am referring to. And just a disclaimer, this is a work of fiction, everything i know comes from Wikipedia, and I am taking a lot of liberties with facts and science. 
> 
> Oh and it's pretty obvious who Aimeric's working for.   
> Jokaste isn't the only villain in this story.


	11. Epilogue

Damen woke to the sound of running water. His throat felt parched, and his limbs felt heavy as if they had been tied down by lead. Every little movement seemed to draw forth some pain from somewhere in his body. Discouraged, he groaned miserably and resigned himself to just lying still. 

‘Water?’ Someone asked and Damen nodded with a grunt. A wet cloth was dabbed gently against his lips, and he licked each droplets up gingerly. There wasn’t much light around him and his head spinned if he tried too hard. Blinking bearily, his addled brain gradually traced out the visage of the prince, pale blue eyes watching over him with something akin to concern.

‘Where am I?’ he asked, voice still hoarse from sleep.

‘In Marlas,’ Laurent whispered. ‘In my room.’

It took awhile for the words to sink in. Damen had a blanket pulled over him and his head was resting against something soft and squarish like a pillow. And if he was in Laurent’s room, that must have meant that he had somehow ended up in the prince’s bed.

‘You gave me your bed.’ He croaked out in disbelief.

‘I know you prefer the rugs. But with your injuries, I thought a bed might help ease the pain.’

The sarcasm was still present, but Laurent was… Laurent was being considerate. And It was disconcerting. Damen shut his eyes briefly, and opened them again, nope, this was not a dream. He might have voiced his thought unintentionally, for the prince chuckled quietly and placed a soaked cloth over Damen’s forehead. ‘Rest. You are still feverish.’

That must have explained the pounding in his head, a dull ache that radiated from his temple and spiked with the slightest movement. It was like the worst possible hangover ever, like someone had took his brain out from his skull and scrambled them all over. It felt the same for his memories. Damen could only recall them in bits and pieces like that of a shattered mirror, too broken to be coherent.

‘What happened?’ He asked. 

‘You don’t recall?’ 

‘I think I fell off a horse.’ The braying of horses seemed stuck in his head, and he had this vaguest sensation of having fallen off of something. 

‘Almost. But I caught you.’ 

Thank goodness for that, Damen did not think he had anymore capacity left to stomach the concussion that would have followed from a fall.

‘My savior,’ he grinned toothily at Laurent who in return, frowned at him contemplatively.

You are a strange man,’ the prince said suddenly. ‘You were held hostage by tribesman and flayed by soldiers. Still you came back to ransom me and my people. Many would have fled when they had the chance to. Yet you stayed. Why?’ 

The prince was studying him intently, azure eyes glistening intensely like sapphires against the flames of the lamp. Damen swallowed dryly, unsure what to say. He settled in the end for the truth. 

‘It’s not like I have anywhere else to go to. At least not in this… this place, this world. Vere.’  

Laurent was his ticket back home. There’s no one else that Damen could turn to. 

‘Mmmh.’ 

A stretch of uncomfortable silence followed before the prince finally said, ‘Catching you was the least I could do. Don’t you recall? You jumped in front of an arrow. An arrow meant for me.’ 

Damen did remember something like that. It was simply reflex, he thought. His body had moved entirely on its own. 

‘I..’ 

Before he could say anything, the sound of urgent door knocks interrupted them. Damen had the strangest feeling that he had just been saved from saying something he might come to regret later. His mind was all fogged up, and he would not trust his brain to mouth filter in his current state.  

‘Your Highness, missive from Arles!’ Someone announced from behind the door. 

‘What is it about?’

‘The messenger did not say, only that it’s from the council and it’s urgent.’ 

Upon hearing that, Laurent went very still, then with a tired smile he said, ‘Very well then. Fetch him to my room, but only him alone. I am with my slave and we do not wished to be disturbed anymore than that.’

The footsteps of the attendant retreated, presumably to go fetch the messenger, the prince lowered the drapes on the corners of the bed and pulled them close, apparently offering Damen a sanctuary to rest, away from prying eyes. If Damen had known that getting injured would elicit such benevolence and charity from the prince, he might have arranged for it earlier. The prince then blew the candles and dimmed the lamps, and Damen felt himself drifting off slowly along with the fading lights, until he felt the bed dipped, and the blankets peeled off of him. His eyes immediately flew open then. Through the shadows, he could see the distinct form of the prince crawling into the empty space alongside him.

‘What…’ 

‘Shush,’ Laurent hushed. A gentle finger placed upon Damen’s lip. ‘It will be over in a moment.’

Paralysed, Damen could only blinked at him owlish. 

They were so close that Damen could hear the sound of the prince breathing, steadily and slow. His own heart was hammering loudly, and he was certain that Laurent must have heard it. They laid like this silently, staring at each other in the dark. 

A knock sounded, and the doors of the room opened, briefly illuminating the room. Through the narrow gaps between the veils, Damen could hear the sounds of the messenger being ushered in. And then shortly after, a thump as the door closed once more and the room settled back into hues of bluish grey.

‘Your Highness, I come bearing a missive from the council,’ the messenger spoke out in the dark. Damen imagined that the poor guy must be feeling rather lost. Hell, staring into the eyes of the prince, Damen felt lost too. In the dark, Damen couldn’t quite see their pretty colours like usually were, but still he could not tear his eyes away.

‘Hand it over.’ Laurent ordered, but the messenger did not move from his spot.

‘What are you waiting for? Or do you expect me to leave my bed and go to you?’ Damen almost opened his mouth right then if not for the insistence press of finger on his lips.

There was a slight shuffling then, and the sound of approaching footsteps. 

‘Closer,’ the prince urged. ‘Hand the missive to me.’ 

When the drape was pulled back, Laurent leaped into action. He grabbed the messenger by the arms, yanked him forward, and slashed without the slightest hint of hesitation. The man gaped, but with the gash across his throat, he could only gargle and then slowly choke. Damen could not forget the look on the man’s face then. First confusion, then utter disbelief which eventually contorted into fear of the imminent death. 

As the man fell to the floor wheezing his final breaths, Laurent plucked the scroll from the man’s hand and hid it beneath a pillow. From his drawer, he pulled a dagger and another scroll, placing both of them into the messenger’s hand. Only when the stage was set, did he called for the guards. 

‘Assassins! Guards! To arms!’ The guards flocked in, and lights spilled in from beyond. 

‘The man had tried to kill me. I want all who accompanied him apprehended. And not one be allowed to live beyond this night,’ it was one of the cruelest performance that Damen had ever witness. 

As the guards rushed off to do the prince’s bidding, dragging along with them, the dead body as if it were a sack of meat, Damen realized then that by staying silent, he had been complicit in the murder of someone and perhaps many more others. 

There must be something, some tell-tale in Damen’s expression, for once the door closed, the lamp lit, and the prince looked in his direction once more, the moment their eyes met, Damen could tell that nothing was what it was anymore, and everything between them had changed. 

‘You should not have come back for me,’ the prince said as he retrieved the missive from beneath the pillow and brought it to the nearest flame. ‘I don’t deserve to be saved.’ 

The scroll burned slowly, sending white wisps of smoke up into the air. 

_                          Heed my words, your prince walks on the tightrope of fates and only you can save him. _

‘Don’t you have to read it?’

_                         From what? _

‘I already know what it says. 

_                         From himself of course. _

'My father, the King, is dead.’

 

 

**Part I ends**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally!!!! I am kind of amazed that I managed to complete it.   
> Okay part of it, but still....
> 
> Major developments coming up in part two.


	12. Laurent

_The corridor was a dark spiraling tunnel, lit barely by the flickering lights of his lamp. The end of summer was near, and the marbled floor beneath his bare feets was stone cold. Still he walked on. One step followed by another till the edge of the garden._

_The scent of roses was as he had recalled, sweet, sometimes sickeningly so. But they had suited her. Like honey, cream, and the ripest of berries on a warm day. The scent had clung to her skin, trailing her wherever she went, just like the echoes of her laughter. Soothing and comforting._

_Now she laid amongst her bed of roses, robes fanned out like the wings of a moth on petals of cherry red. The roses had been white, and sometimes pink, but never red. Never._

_He couldn’t quite grasp what he had seen. He saw the sword, gliniting menacingly against the moonlight, its tip sheathed in her heart. He saw the pallor of her face, frozen like the sculpture of a goddess, staring lifelessly at the stars of the night. He saw, but he could not comprehend._

_He saw the man standing beside her. Hooded, and cloaked. A haunting cut of a figure, an abyss of darkness for a face. Then his face turned, and caught light._

_‘Brother?’_

 

* * *

 

 

Laurent eyes snapped open but his dreams lingered. They always did. He should have tears for them, but those had long been frozen, along with whatever emotions that remained inside of him.  

Outside of his room, dawn was breaking, lilac hues seeping through the intricate lattices carved onto the wooden shutters. A few moments more, and the rooster would crow, but before then the whole fortress was settled in a restful slumber, like the man snoring faintly beside him.

Despite the morning chill, the bed was awfully warm, as it had been recently, since they started sharing the same bed. Him and Damen. Little dressed as Damen was in that strange Akielon garment he had taken to wearing, the man burned hotly through the night, and hardly had any need for the sheets, preferring to let them pool low on his waist.

The sharing of bed had been a concession on Laurent’s part. When asked, Laurent had been critically blunt - the faster the injuries heal, the less of a burden Damen will be; and if the man try to exploit their arrangement, Laurent had warned him about the dagger beneath his pillow. _I will never…_  Damen had protested, but was shut up once Laurent reminded him of their first encounter, where certain liberties were taken without consent. There was another reason though, not that Laurent would ever admit to it. Damen had been injured for his sake, and in spite of his reputation, Laurent wasn’t that heartless to relegate him back to the rugs.

While the wounds had scabbed over and the bandages removed, Laurent could still see clearly the ghastly gashes across the man’s back. They would never be gone. Much like the other scars that spanned across Damen’s body. From the puncture on the left shoulder, to the mangled mess on the lower back, and further down, faint white tracks on thighs and calves. Each of them, a piece of story which had left its mark on the man. They intrigued Laurent, and sometimes he wondered how it would feel to trace them all with his finger one by one, like the trails of a map. What could await when the route ends.

Damen stirred suddenly, and Laurent averted his eyes. There’s no meaning in that line of thought, for it will only end in madness. Time was a noose around his neck, and Laurent could not afford to trifle with petty dalliance.

Governor Aimeric was dead, and so was his assassin, a nameless soldier who had turned the sword on himself once his job was done. Perhaps their deaths might be for the better. A trial would have been a real farce, for the culprits would lie, and so must Laurent. He already knew who the puppeteer was. His uncle always had the gift to spark the utmost loyalty amongst his men. To have the chancellor’s name brought up in courts would only complicate and undermine Laurent’s precarious standing in the council. Not that it mattered anymore. For the wheels had been set turning.

With the perpetrator gone, the Akielon tribes had asked for little to no repatriation, though it was in their rights to do so. Traitor or not, Aimeric had been Veretian.

Although Laurent had offered to care for the freed abductees, some barely of age, and wean them off the challis they had been forced to rely on, the Akielons were lukewarm about the proposal. They will look after their own.

And then there were the lost ones. Akielons that had been sold to the Patran’s slave dens, and were long gone from the plantation by the time the tribes arrived. No amount of gold would have brought them back. _Hope might_. The Akielon from the other tribe, Nikandros had said, before departing with the merchant for Patra. His sister was amongst those who were lost, and he must continue till she’s found again.

Laurent envied him for his faith. He had not clung onto hope when Auguste was lost.

 

* * *

 

_They had tracked his brother to the pass at dusk when the Karthas was shrouded in a veil of mist and fog, intercepting him before he could make his way to Patras and vanish forever amongst the mob of tradesman and travelers._

_Encircled by approaching guards on both ends of the road, Auguste had looked as he always did, regal and collected with his head held high and blue eyes that shine warmly even as the dwindling light was consumed by the approaching storm._

_‘Brother, please. You must return with me,’ Laurent pleaded as a thunder rumbled in the distance. ‘It must be a mistake. Let us return and explain to the council so that they can absolve you of this atrocious accusation.’_

_Matricide, the council had proclaimed. The sword had been Auguste’s, and while the younger prince had not witness the crime, he had seen his brother alone beside the body of their mother. Moreover Prince Auguste had been on the run since that fateful night and that alone was cause enough to find him culpable or somewhat involved. The motive was unclear but treason had been the speculation, and a tale had been circulating on how Prince Auguste had planned to usurp both the king and the crown prince, only for the queen to intervene at the cost of her life._

_Laurent refused to believe any of it. While second in line to the throne, Auguste had assumed the duties of the sickly crown prince, executing them flawlessly and commanding the respects of his men and the hearts of the people. Such a man was definitely not the treasonous fugitive the council had made him out to be, but the brother whom Laurent had looked up to more than anyone else. There must be another truth to what he had seen that night._

_Suddenly, a white bolt broke across the sky, and a violent flash blinded out everything at once. Squinting, Laurent could only hear the shrieks horses and men. But even those were soon drowned by a thunderous roar that echoed in his ears._

_‘Auguste?!’ He shouted while struggling to hold his horse still. The beast was badly spooked and was buckling wildly._

_His sight returned slowly, specks of purple bleeding away, giving way to the luminous glow of orange and red. A tree had caught fire, and the flames have crept down to the ground, devouring leaves and branches desiccated over the preceding summer._

_The number of guards around them had thinned, some had obviously failed to control their mounts which had taken off in the midst of chaos along with their riders. If Laurent had noticed this, Auguste must certainly have as well. And Laurent looked up to find that his brother was indeed charging straight at the weakest link amongst the scattered guards._

_He broke the line easily, for no one had dare to stop or raise their swords against him. Wanted or not, Auguste had been their prince, and it was no secret that some guards had only joined the hunt as an excuse to furtively aide the prince when the need arise._

_Laurent could not let Auguste go. Not until he had heard the truth from him. He gave a quick tug on the reins and gave chase. Above them the clouds finally broke and rain pelted down heavily on their backs, but neither were willing to slow down._

_The Kathas pass straddled between Patra and the Delfeur, a long winding mountainous road, formed naturally by rain and river which ran between both kingdom and republic. People hardly venture here in recent times and even Laurent himself had never been to the Karthas. But Auguste seemed to know where he was heading, and Laurent rode closely behind along with a few remaining guards who had been quick enough to follow._

_Between the rain and the impact of hooves on ground, Laurent could hear something else. The sound of water that cascaded the further ahead they rode. As he rounded yet another corner, he finally saw its source, a wide river which severed the road they were travelling on._

_The water had risen with the rain, but Auguste had edged his horse on, and had already made it halfway across the river while Laurent’s own horse was unyielding. With a tight pull on the reins, his mount finally jumped hesitatingly into the water with a splash which caught Auguste’s attention._

_‘Laurent, stop,’ His brother said with his back towards Laurent like that of a stranger addressing another. ‘Where I go, you can no longer follow.’ It occurred to Laurent then, that Auguste was perhaps saying his farewell, and a flash of hot anger burned through him. ‘The only place we are going, is back to Arles.’_

_His outburst seemed to caught Auguste by surprise. And Laurent himself too. He was brought up as royalty and had thought himself above throwing tantrums like that of a common child. Finally though, Auguste turned to look at him._

_‘Stubborn little brother,’ he chuckled fondly, and for a brief moment, Laurent thought he would concede, that they would return back to Arles together to restore his brother’s honor. But his relief was cut short by an ominous rumbling, and Laurent looked up to see a sudden wall of water crashing down the river, and charging straight for them._

_‘Flood! We have to turn back,’ Laurent shouted. His horse needed no prodding, and had instinctively galloped back towards the shores as the first wave of water nipped at them. But when Laurent turned around, he found that Auguste had not moved at all._

_‘Auguste! What are you waiting for?’_

_‘Laurent, listen. You can’t follow me forever. We have to part ways now.’_

_‘No! You can’t,’ It couldn’t be. Laurent tried to urge his horse back into the water, but his mare was having none of it._

_‘Forgive me brother.’ With a final smile, Auguste bid his farewell, as the water engulfed him entirely._

_‘Auguste!’ Laurent wanted to jump in after him, he had sworn that he would serve by his brother’s side forever, king or not. But his damned guards held him back. He had clawed at their arms and bitten their hands, but they did not let him go, manhandling and dragging him far away from the river and away from his brother._

_Thereafter he had fell into a terrible delirium and barely even knew how he got back to Arles, only that he did, for when his mind was clear again, one season had passed and the city had been in mourning for queen and both princes. It was like a curse had plagued the royal family._

_Prince Auguste was missing, most likely dead. Driven to suicide by his younger brother, some had whispered. And the gods had not received the act well, Prince Laurent was on the verge of being summoned by the gates.The healers had apparently thought he would not outlived his thirteenth, and had him brought to the grand temple with the hope that the priests and their prayers could ease his passing._

_His memories came slowly back to him. He recalled Touar telling him how they had found Auguste’s mount, crushed and swept onto the river banks. He remembered inspecting the corpse, lifeless eyes infested with crawling flies. He imagined his brother, the same, twisted and broken like the creature before of him, and he prayed for Auguste to never be found._

 

* * *

 

‘It’s rare for you to sleep in late.’ Damen was watching him drowsily, having awoken while Laurent was still tangled in the webs of his memories.

The man’s face was relaxed from sleep and as he yawned, Laurent could see the dimple on the side of his cheek, covered with the usual scruffle across sharp jawline that always magicked themselves in the early mornings before Damen took a blade to them. Laurent did not know why Damen bothered, they would emerged again soon by late afternoon; and it wasn’t as if a shave was needed for the man to look presentable.

‘I could say the same. Don’t you usually wake later?’ Laurent riled, but Damen had grown accustomed to his barbs, and was quite unruffled.

‘Cut me a break,’ he said, rolling onto his back and flattening himself deep into the mattress. ‘Firstly I am wounded, and secondly, I can sleep as late as I want to while on vacation.’

‘Vacation?’ The strange word rolled on Laurent’s tongue. Sometimes Damen would speak of foreign words or references that Laurent had never come across despite being well-versed in six different tongues and maintaining a working knowledge of another three. While Laurent had tried to ignore them, sometimes he could not help but be intrigued by the world which Damen had came from, places where the word ‘vacation’ come to mean something.  

‘Yeah, vacation. You know, like taking a break from work?’ Damen explained with a lazy grin. ‘I mean it fits all the criteria. Exotic architecture -  check. Interaction with ethnic tribes - check. Great sunny weather here in the south. The rooms need better toilets, but the baths are fantastic. Not to mention the food and wine’s good.’

Damen’s head must be filled with cotton, Laurent thought. Or the injuries went far deeper than the healers had proclaimed. Had he forgotten how close he had been to the gates since stepping foot on this land? It was through sheer dumb luck that Damen had managed to survive this far. _Or it was as fate decreed,_ a traitorous voice said, but he quelled that thought quickly.

‘You should enjoy it while it lasted.’ He got on his feet and pulled on his robes. Damen’s nature was the most foreign and incomprehensible. And Laurent wanted to be as far away as he could, to put some distance between them, lest he be drawn by the enigma that was Damen. Getting out of the same bed was a good start.

‘The second missive will arrive any day soon.’

Damen’s face darkened at his words, and it was apparent that he was thinking back to that night when Laurent had ten men murdered in cold blood. One by his own hands, and the other nine, by the orders and lies he had spoken. Laurent’s actions had clearly not sat well with Damen at all. Good, Laurent thought. If Damen had any doubts before, that experience would have made it unmistakable that Laurent was by no means an innocent. The lives of ten, or even thousands were worth nothing in light of Laurent’s plans. No sacrifice too hefty to right his mistakes. It would be best for Damen to steer clear of Laurent least he be burnt.

But even as Laurent pulled away, Damen infuriatingly reached for him. ‘I still don’t understand why you did that,’ Damen was looking searchingly at Laurent for a sign of something. If hehad hope to find redemption in Laurent, he would be sorely disappointed for there’s none to be found.  

‘You would not. Man like you do not have the mind for deceit.’ Still Laurent found himself answering honestly and Damen’s brow furrowed with a frown.

‘Are you insinuating that I’m stupid?’

‘That’s not…’

‘Wait, did you hear something?’  Damen said all of a sudden, and Laurent’s ear perked up. The man was right, there seemed to be a commotion building up outside of the room. Laurent had been careless, while they had not come to the crux of the matter, a discerning eavesdropper would make the connection. Striding towards the door, Laurent threw it open to find an unexpected guest.

‘Lord Touars.’

‘Your Highness, we’ve told him that the prince’s not to be disturbed but…’ Radel explained hastily. It seem like his attendants had been trying to hold the man back from barging into his room unannounced. While it did not show on his face, Laurent was relieved. Touar was unlikely to have overheard them, even if he did, there would be little damage.

‘Prince Laurent. You have been summoned back to Arles.’

And so it came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup I am switching the POV to Laurent. The original draft was to stick with Damen till the end, but the idea just popped into my head and i thought why not. For one, it will be much easier to explain certain stuff abt Vere in the upcoming chapters.


	13. Chapter 13

‘Summoned back to Arles by the council,’ Laurent sighed with feigned annoyance. He buttered his bread while giving a cursory glance at the parchment. The message was laconic and the messenger himself even more so. When his attendants had asked earlier if the lord would like to breakfast alongside the prince, Touars had merely gruffed curtly at them. While Radel did bring Touars’ his share of the spread, he had not bothered to fetch him any chair which was terribly negligent of him as a royal attendant, or some would say, terribly discerning. The man had ignored formalities, barged in unannounced, and treated the attendants poorly. Radel had merely responded in spite, and Laurent approved if only to see Touars shuffling awkwardly before Laurent while watching him eat.

‘Why had they sent me here if they were just going to recall me right after? I had barely acquire a tan.’

‘I am not privy to the intentions of the council,’ Touars admitted with a frown, mouth tightening in a thin line. ‘Had you not been informed of this summon?’

‘Not a word.’ Laurent said nonchalantly. Damen, sitting on the rugs beside him, cleared his throat and Laurent immediately shoveled a small loaf of bread into his mouth. It was unbuttered and a little too dry to be honest, and it amused Laurent to watch the man chewed at it grudgingly. While Laurent trusted him not to speak unprompted, Damen could be annoyingly unpredictable and Laurent thought it best to keep the man occupied with the food instead of the conversation.

Had Touars been more familiar with the parlours in Arles, he might have found their interaction strange and atypical of master’s and slave’s. It would be. When alone by themselves, Laurent had not bother hand-feeding Damen as per the Veretian custom. The man had injured his back, not his hands, and going by the copious amount of nourishment Damen needed for every meal, feeding him would inevitably tire Laurent out.

‘But there must have been a missive prior.’ Touars’ brows were knitted together in confusion as if he was trying to recall something. ‘Messengers bearing the Council’s crest had stopped by Ravenal briefly. They were heading for Marlas, and should have arrived a long while back. Had they not made their way here?’

‘The council’s messengers you say?’ Laurent paused, affecting the appearance of deep thought, before continuing as honestly as he could, ‘Had they been here I would definitely have recalled receiving them. Since I do not, then they must not have made it here after all.’

Damen jittered restlessly, and Laurent passed him some tea. He had made sure that it was newly poured and scaling hot, and judging by the sputtering and choking that followed, the temperature was just about right.

While Laurent had taken care not to overplay his obliviousness, he could see from the narrowing of the lord’s eyes, that Touars’ suspicion was nevertheless aroused. Idle gossips casted Lord Touars as a man who much preferred the games of a hunt over those of the table, and Laurent thought it for the best. The lord’s thoughts screamed out loud, not in words, but in the thousand little twitches in which a seasoned gambler would know to look for. Laurent could see Touars thinking, conflicted over calling Laurent out on his possible lies or letting them slide, and Laurent knew the exact moment when the lord settled on the latter. To Touars, there were more important matters to be discussed between lord and prince than the whereabouts of some messengers.

‘Those young men must have wandered off the road,’ Touars sighed with a shake of his head. His exact words. Laurent had suggested nothing of that sort, but neither would he be correcting the lord anytime soon. ‘Never mind. That no longer matters. The council had asked for your return to Arles, and we must set forth today.’

Laurent had expected that much haste. The council, or more likely, the chancellor wanted him caught unprepared and would have been successful had Laurent not been forewarned in a fortuitous turn of events. Still the first missive had come far too early, and Laurent had stalled for time the only way he could think of, by pretending it never arrived. That barter had brought him a few more days, miniscule time which barely measure up to the lifetime of men. It was a somber thought and Laurent forced himself not to dwell on it.

‘Today? You must really want me out of Delfleur,’ he snorted and Touars turned beet red. ‘Prince Laurent, it was not my intention but the council’s. You are welcomed to return to the South after your business with the council is concluded.’ He explained gruffly.   

‘Still, today is not only unreasonable, but impossible. I have fifty guards with me, not to mention my attendants. A group that size could not travel on short notices. We need at least five days to have the arrangements in order.’ Laurent, of course had no need for that amount of time, the most important of preparations were already set in stone a long time ago.

‘Then I suggest you leave your men behind.’

‘And I suppose I am to escort myself?’

‘Not alone. My men and I stand ready to ride with you.’

Interesting. There might have been a time when Laurent was naive enough to go traipsing in the woods alone with the chancellor’s men, but Laurent had outgrown that nature by his fifteen name’s day. His uncle knew him well and had not send his own men, but had asked for Touars to deploy his instead. An well informed choice, not because the lord was incapable of duplicity and was honorable enough at least, for Laurent to consider entrusting his life with him, but because Touars happened to be as obstinate as a rock and a strict follower of commands. He would torment Laurent from dawn to dusk till the prince agree to ride back to Arles with him. Laurent could ignore or bury as many messengers as he like, but he could not ignore Lord Touars.

‘Having you as my guard would be the most reassuring,’ Laurent sighed. ‘But I am afraid I can’t leave the South that easily. Not when the governor of Marlas killed himself right after provoking some Akielon tribes.’ There was a long account written on it, Laurent had personally dictate and then inspect it after the scribe was done. He just hadn’t bother to send it to Arles yet. So the news that Aimeric was dead, caught Touars entirely by off guard, eyes widening in surprise as he read through the onerous scroll Laurent tossed at him.

‘Why was this not dispatched? The council must be informed immediately.’

‘That I agree. But you could not have imagine how impossibly busy I had been with this mess in Marlas. Since you now know my circumstances, I presume you could kindly inform my uncle in your next dispatch to him that I would need more time here.’  

Touars was troubled, face scrunched up like Laurent had just force fed him a lemon. With Aimeric gone, there would be few left to ensure that Marlas, already suffering from a supposed plague would not succumb to food shortages or unrest, as was typical when the people had left their lands untended for too long. But the Akielons were the crux of Touars’ concern. Sure, once they have gathered their people, the Ka tribe couldn’t be less bothered to deal with the Veretians any more than they have to, winter was merely a season away after all and there were still much to do, but Touars did not know that and Laurent may have added a few misleading breadcrumbs in his script to drum up the prospects of retributory raids by the tribes. And Laurent knew what an old soldier like Touars would say to that.  

‘Your Highness, you are right. If it had come to this, we can not leave Marlas unguarded and vulnerable to the tribes. But still you cannot ignore the summons of the council.’

‘What do you propose then? Should I slice myself in two? You think the council would prefer to meet my left or my right?’

Touars did not attempt to dignify the jest with a response, he had known Laurent since he was a  child, and had thought the best way to deal with the prince’s caustic wit was with disdain. ‘I will remain in Defleur. This old man has a duty to safeguard the people of the south, but you must ride for Arles. Enguerran, my captain will guard you.’

‘And this Enguerran, can I trust him with my life?’

‘I would with mine.’

While the chancellor seemed eager to have Laurent back in Arles, knowing the temperament of his uncle, he too would have no compunction arranging an unfortunate accident on the roads to befall Laurent. It was a gamble and Laurent knew what he had to do to increase his odds.

He looked at Damen, who was pretending terribly that he wasn’t eavesdropping on their conversation. If Laurent had been a better man, he would have let Damen stayed in Delfeur. Damen may not be safe from Jokaste here, but then, she had been a much poorer adversary than the chancellor. By now she too must have realized her mistake and her naivety. It must have insulted her greatly to have her wit, beauty and wiles belittled and rendered fruitless so easily by the cunningness and malice of a greater foe. And if Laurent were to bring Damen back to Arles, the man would most surely be jeopardized, just by playing on Laurent’s side.

But Laurent would not be swayed. Either way Damen was a game piece on their boards, and if he must be played, Laurent would rather have him in his palm.

‘Fine we can commence our trip today. But my slave comes with me,’ he said with finality.

 

* * *

 

‘You are tense.’ Damen observed. They were alone in the carriage, and for once Laurent had forego his scrolls, preferring instead to watch the idyllic sceneries of fields and plains roll gently by.

‘Perhaps I am just excited that we are finally heading back to civilization,’ Laurent drawled, eyes never straying from the view outside. The wheats were bent with the weight of their grains, and in a few more weeks, they would ripen from cheery green to a sheer golden. Had it not been for Aimeric’s interference, it would have been a good harvest for Delfeur.   

‘Don’t lie. You didn’t even want to return to Arles.’

Laurent sighed, the man could be so clueless sometimes. With a crook of his finger and a pat on the upholstery, Laurent beckoned Damen to swap seats, from the opposite to the one beside the prince. It was a tight fit for two grown men, especially if one of them was with Damen’s built, and once the man had squeeze himself into place, there were barely a finger of space left between their shoulders. Damen looked annoyed, but his eyes were darting as they tend to do when Laurent got too close for his comfort. If such proximity made Damen uncomfortable, Laurent wonder how he would react if he knew what came next.

‘Why would I want to return to Arles when we can have so much fun together in Marlas?’ Laurent said with a sly smile as he straddled himself across Damen’s lap with practiced ease. The look of utter confusion and disbelief that flickered across that man’s face was as ridiculous as Laurent had imagined.

‘What...’ Damen hissed like a maiden about to cry rape, and Laurent immediately shut him up by leaning in and biting down on his ear hard. ‘Aw!’ Damen’s short cry of pain was followed by a sharp intake of breath, as Laurent gave the wound a tender lick and whispered softly by the cartilage, ‘Idiot. The walls have ears. Now hold onto me, or I will castrate you.’

Two arms immediately encircled around his back, and held him steadily albeit stiffly. Laurent smirked as he rearranged and settled himself into a more comfortable position on Damen’s lap.  

‘You may ask your question,’ Laurent whispered. He had his back on Damen’s arm, and his head resting on the man’s shoulder, such that when he spoke, his words would be intended for Damen only. To any outsider who’s watching them, they would have appeared as the lovers they were supposed to be, muttering sweet nothings to each other.

‘You do not want to return to Arles,’ Damen murmured as Laurent toyed at the golden collar on the man’s neck. The metal was cold to touch, but the skin beneath warmed his fingers. Laurent could feel the bob of Damen’s throat with each word he spoke.

‘Mmh, I do not.’

‘Why?’ Damen had shifted one of his hands to rest on Laurent’s thigh, it seemed like the man had finally relaxed into the roles they were playing.

‘Why indeed? It is not in my nature to go willingly into a trap. I run. I always run.’ He had thought that running was what helped him survive, but that wasn’t exactly true. He had never truly escaped the nets he was caught in, and all the fisher had to do now was just pull him in.

‘What makes you think there is any trap?’

‘My informant told me that my father’s dead. Yet not one word was mentioned by the council in their missive. Either they have thought it not important enough to inform me, or they do not want me informed. Which do you think has a higher likelihood?’

With that, Damen turned his head and looked him somberly in the eyes and Laurent could tell that those rusty wheels were finally turning in his head. ‘Wait,’ he hissed. ‘If the king is dead, what does that mean?’ Laurent did not answer, but rolled his eyes and gave him a pointed stare.

‘Okay, I get it. There will be a new king, but who’s next?’ That’s what Laurent wanted to know. But one thing’s for certain.

‘Whoever that is, it’s not me,’ he said icily.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Laurent could see a shadow of movement outside of the window. Immediately, he tugged at Damen’s collar, pulled his head down and latched his lips onto his. The kiss wasn’t gentle, nor was it imbued with passion, it was merely for play, but still a shudder wrecked through the body he was held against. Damen’s reaction wasn’t unsurprising, Laurent knew that the man was attracted to him. But what did surprise Laurent, was the thrill he felt running down his own spine, as the hands on his back and thigh, touching so innocently before, turned into a griping hold. And when Damen licked gently at his lips, he had not expect himself to let him in. It wasn’t an act that Laurent was used to and he wondered for a brief moment if his inexperience would show, but Damen seemed content to take the lead, tongue entwining slowly with Laurent’s and coaxing him. It was perhaps too much, or perhaps too little, Laurent did not know, for once he wasn’t thinking much at all.

A cough sounded from outside the carriage window and Laurent pulled away. He dared not chance a look at Damen, but instead turned his attention to the person who had intrude on their privacy. It was Lord Touars of course. Which other obtuse old prick would witness what appears to be an intimate moment between a master and his slave, and still be crass enough to interrupt.

‘Lord Touars. Is there any problem?’ Laurent asked as he swiped, with the back of his hand, all lingering traces of his previous folly from the corner of his lips.

‘Prince Laurent,’ the lord said, eyes looking at everywhere else except at Laurent. ‘All is well. I just thought you may want to know that we will be passing by the summer palace soon.’  

Laurent fell silent. The summer palace, that’s where she was laid to rest.

_Mother._

* * *

 

The palace was a small affair, built in white marble a short distance away on the outskirts of Ravenel. It was a gift from king to queen, a love token. A little hideout where the queen could retreat to whenever she misses her homeland here in the South. When he was still a child, they would travel here once a while in summer and he would spent the time riding after Auguste and eating berries freshly pluck off the shrubs. Laurent had acquire some of his dearest memories here, and one of his worst, for this was the place where Queen Hennike was murdered.

Laurent did not know what to expect. He had not been here once, since her funeral. With him staying away, and his mother well across the gate, Laurent had thought that the place would become derelict and neglected, a poor shadow of its former self. But both the palace and the garden had looked surprisingly well tended, most likely through the efforts of Touars. Still, there was a irreconcilable discrepancy between the remnants of his memories, and the imagery of the present. Perhaps because he was no longer the child he used to be, and were now reconsidering the palace with changed eyes.

His mother was place to rest in the garden, beneath a plague that spoke of her titles and virtues. Queen of Vere. Mother to all. Priestess of the grand temples. The garden was her favorite place, and the king had thought it apt to return her here, surrounded by the roses she had care for. Not considering at all, the irony of burying her in the same place where she died.

Laurent plucked a rose and laid it before her plague.

Lord Touars was standing a respectful distance away, engaged in what appears to be a glaring match with Damen. In their own awkward manner, they were offering Laurent space, figuring that the prince might perhaps have words with his kin, that were not meant for another’s ear. They were right, there’s so many things that Laurent wanted to say. Too many. But in the end he could only utter a single promise - _I swear._

Both men seemed surprise when Laurent turned and headed towards them, already ready to leave. What had they been expecting Laurent to do? Cry? Impossible.

However as he walked past Touars, Laurent did manage to muster a word of gratitude. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘For tending to my mother’s grave.’ From the astonished look on his face, Touars had most definitely not expect him to say that.

‘I have looked up to the queen like a sister. This was the least I could do for her.’ His mother and Touars had been childhood friends along with the few other southern nobles. And there had been unsavory rumors as was common among gossiping courtiers with too much time on hand, but to Laurent’s knowledge, his mother had never considered Touars as anyone other than a little brother, and the feelings were mutual.

‘That wasn’t the only thing you did,’ Laurent said knowingly. ‘You have been in correspondence with the chancellor over my well-being in Arles. And you are still searching for Auguste, even after all this time.’

‘That’s…’

‘I appreciate what you are doing, but I want you to stop.’ Laurent did not want Touars to spend time on a lost cause. ‘Auguste is gone.’   

Touars looked crestfallen upon hearing his words, but the steely light in his eyes did not waver, ‘My prince. You may have lost heart, but this bloody old fool is an obstinate old man. I have promised the queen to look after you both, and I always keep to my words. Even if all that’s left of Prince Auguste is bones, I will still bring him back to the queen.’  

‘So you are saying that your loyalty persist even beyond your master’s deaths?’ Laurent asked, eyes never leaving the sun-weathered face of the lord. The man did not answer, but Laurent found what he was looking for anyway.

‘Why did I even bother asking. Fine do as you please, but if you find my brother’s bones, do feed them to the dogs.’

 

* * *

 

They parted ways with Touars in Ravenel and continued on the dull winding road back to Arles. Enguerran was an efficient captain, but had clearly felt uncomfortable around the prince as most men do when they can’t decide whether they want to fuck or kill him. Fortunately Radel had insisted to be brought along with a few other hand-picked attendants, and Laurent was glad that he had allowed for it. If it was up to Touar’s men, Laurent would have spent the countless nights on the road sheltered in tents or the horses stables. It was bad enough that Laurent was on his way to a trap, it was worse if he had to do it without life’s comforts.

The journey had been thankfully uneventful. The southern soldiers hardly knew the prince beyond his painted portrait. Their loyalty was to Lord Touar, not Laurent, and the prince did not have any illusion that they would lay their lives down for him when the need arise. Which was why, Laurent kept Damen close like a shield.

Laurent had seen the man fought, and knew how many men it took to barely even hold him down. Damen might ride his horse like a duck and hold a sword like a bread knife, but the man was a trained soldier and could be brutally lethal when he wants to be like a sword sharpened to kill.

A shield, a sword, and should the need arise, a disposable pawn, that’s what Laurent thought of the man called Damen. And there should be nothing more to it. But there were times, when Laurent found his thoughts straying back to the warmth of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and how his eyes seemed too bright to Laurent’s own frosty ones. That kiss in the carriage had been mistake, and Laurent knew he would live to regret it.

They reached the gates of Arles without even a single assassination attempt. His uncle was patient which only served to suggest that whatever he had planned to ensnare Laurent must had been well worth the wait.

Enguerran had sent word ahead before their arrival, and behind the gates, King’s men in red stood waiting. Ten, twenty, thirty. Through the small carriage window, Laurent counted their numbers silently. It was many men, which would have made sense if they were throwing him a joyous homecoming, but that was evidently not what it appeared to be. The streets were strangely quiet like the calm before the storm, and the only people out and about were the ones who were busying carrying on with their lives. The only reasonable conclusion Laurent could arrive at was the people did not know that the prince had return. The council had not informed them.

Laurent wondered whether he should make his presence known. He was a fairly identifiable face in Arles, and all he had to do was to step out of the coach, made some grand gesture and deliver some pompous speech and the people would flocked him. Just because the council had him trapped like a bird in a cage did not mean he had to start acting like one.

But the king’s guard did not give him time to put his plan into place. The carriage started moving again, off the main road and into the back alleys. Laurent subtly placed his hand over his sword, a gesture that was not overlooked by Damen. The man looked up at him in alarm. Enguerran and his soldiers were still behind them, and Laurent did not think that his uncle would be audacious enough to have him killed under broad daylight. Still it never hurts to be too careful.

The carriage rolled slowly to the council hall, where only the most powerful amongst Vere’s nobility convene and where the most important of decisions were made. The carriage door opened and the carpet was rolled from the carriage, straight through the portico and into the open doors of the oval building. None of the councillors were here to welcome him. It was as if Laurent had displeased them, and they lie in wait on in their overcompensating wooden chairs, for Laurent to arrive such that they could reprimand and reproach him. If they had thought this would intimidate Laurent, the old farts had taken him too lightly.

Laurent stepped onto the carpets, head held high and regal. He had pieced together his uncle’s plan, it was a devious one of course, as expected of the man. Still, Laurent was the prince of Vere, and until proof had been found, the chancellor could not take that from him. Turning to Damen, he said, ‘Come. Walk with me.’

The hall had always been a dank and dark place. Which was befitting, Laurent thought, after all conspiracy was hardly an undertaking which could be conducted in open lights. Damen was looking at him uneasily, had he sensed it? The danger that they were about to be in. But the man had not run, and had followed Laurent step for step, into a uncertain fate. The fool. Laurent thought with a wince. His trust in Laurent would be the end of him.

The long corridor open into a wide rotunda, where the Councillors sat in designated spots. A quick glance revealed that each and every one of them were present, which was a miracle by itself, usually one of them would fall sick in the guts, the eye, or one of those numerous ailments common to men their age. The seat of the king which stood at the head was conspicuously empty and so was the crown prince’s. But that was hardly a surprise, given that crown prince was confined to bed since years ago. His own spot was empty, the chair having been moved and placed before the council. But moving down the princes’ stand was a familiar face of someone who had always complained about the odious meetings with the councils, and would find some way to be away on some other business. Fourth prince of Vere and Laurent’s little brother from another mother, Nicaise.

Laurent did not wait for the council to address him. He sauntered to the seat before them, and plopped himself down comfortably. As Damen crouched to sit by his knee, the customary show of submission to one’s master, Laurent stopped him. ‘It’s fine. Stand.’

‘Nephew, do you know why you have been summoned?’ The chancellor said.

‘Enlightened me, uncle.’

The hall and the men were silent as his uncle spoke, each word crafted to tighten the noose around Laurent’s neck.

‘Prince Laurent, you stand accused of treason of the vilest nature - Regicide. Now let the trials begin.’  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that they are finally back in Arles, I can finally reintroducing characters that were only briefly mentioned before. First up Nicaise! i think the next chapt will take a while to write. It's hard to write the way Laurent speaks.


	14. Chapter 14

Laurent’s first response was to laugh, not because he found the accusation ridiculous, but because he knew it would invite suspicion if he did not. So he did exactly that, letting that harsh bark dissolve into a giggle and a mirth that reach his shoulders, but not quite his eyes.

‘Uncle, what did you say? Treason?’ He affected a tone that spoke of ridicule and utter disbelief.

The chancellor’s face was grim, and so were the other Councillors. The exemplary display of solemness, to convey the severity of the crime that Laurent stood accused of. Laurent paused in his laughter, and let the first hint of dismay coloured his face.

The council had not informed him that the king was dead, but Laurent had known of that, and had trusted his source to be true. But that too created a slight little problem which needed to be handled delicately before the council - Laurent must play the clueless role of a son who had just learnt that his father was dead. It wouldn’t be a simple task, despite the years of practice he had, navigating through the different fractions in courts and playing pretend with everyone of them. His best performance would hardly deceive his uncle’s eyes, but he did not need to, all he had to do was convince those among the council, as few as there may be left, who still believed in him.

‘What happened to the king?’ He asked, eyes narrowing in question.

‘Laurent, you are pretending. You knew exactly what had happened to my brother,’ the chancellor deflected. Either his uncle had guessed correctly that Laurent knew, or he was too playing the role of an accuser. There was a reason why Laurent had chose to sit instead of stand defiantly before the council. He had guessed that this would be a long and testing trial, especially if both players choose to play the game of pretend.

‘Uncle, I asked again, what happened to my father?’ They could go on forever, there’s no rush at least on Laurent’s part.

In the end, it was the council who broke first.

‘Prince Laurent, King Aleron had been poisoned,’ a Councillor spoke. It was Herode, a distant cousin of his mother. He sounded sympathetic, it seemed like Laurent had not lost him yet. Good.

‘Poisoned.’ He let the word washed over him for a moment.

‘Is he… is my father well?’ The quiver in his voice was deliberate. The council knew that the prince had lost his mother early, and now he too had lost his father. Most of these men had families and loved ones, and knew of the pains when their beloved were gone, Laurent wasn’t above exploiting that.

‘The king had been summoned through the gates.’ Another Councillor, Jeurre delivered the news regretfully.

Laurent shut his eyes and slumped back on his seat. He was not known for being sentimental, which was why he chose not to cry. That would have been out of his character.

Claps echoed through the dome. Councillor Guion, father of Aimeric, was looking at the spectacle with a mask of indifference. Laurent knew which side he supported without even needing to hear him out, Guion was very much his uncle’s man. He wondered whether the councillor had learnt of his son’s death, or whether he had even cared. Laurent doubted it, if Guion had been concerned for his son, he would not have used him as a rung while he climbed the ladder of his career. And Laurent knew the type of boys his uncle gets to, lonely and lost, with the absence of a father figure.

‘Bravo, bravo! A very well act indeed, your highness, considering it was you who poisoned the King,’ the councillor accused with spite intended to rile him and Laurent bit the bait he was thrown. A son had just learn of his father’s death, and was accused of committing patricide. Rage would have been an appropriate response.  

‘What did you say?’ He spat in outrage. ‘I should have your mouth sewn shut with the accusation you make.’

‘Why fear what others would say, if you were innocent of the deed,’ the chancellor spoke. It must have been a good performance, if it had finally draw out his uncle. It was only a matter of time, they both knew that Guion made a poor sparring partner for Laurent.

‘For the deed is so vile, it revolts me to even have my name be associated with it,’ Laurent retorted in disgust. ‘Uncle, do not tell me that you too believed in such lies. Have you no trust in your own nephew and you own blood?’

‘Laurent,’ the chancellor sighed with regret. ‘I do not know what to think. First Auguste and now you. It pains me.’

The Councillors gasped and murmured amongst themselves, the very response which his uncle had hoped to evoke with the mention of Auguste’s name. An apple do not fall far from its tree, and having the same blood was incriminating. That was what his uncle was insinuating. But this accusation would not be sufficient to bring him down, Laurent’s disdain for his own brother was well known among the courts.

‘I am not my brother.’

Surprisingly, his uncle agreed. ‘You are not,’ he said.

‘You are a much poorer substitute.’

Laurent gripped at the handles of his chair. How dared he. How dared the man said that. The rage Laurent felt for that moment was not an act. It was undeniably real and Laurent struggled to clear his mind of it. He would not give his uncle the victory of finding Laurent’s weakness.

‘You said I poisoned my father. But the last I saw of him was the day I left for Delfeur. All of you were there. You saw with your very own eyes that the king was hale. How then could I have poisoned him when I was miles away in a horse carriage?’

The council was silent until his uncle next spoke, ‘Bring us the criminal.’  The guards moved, and when they came back, they were dragging with them a man, if what was left of him could still be considered as one. His fingers had lost their nails and were crooked and broken, and so were his toes while the tendons to his limbs had been severed such that they laid limp beside the skeletal of his body. His jailers had stripped him of his dignity and capacity and had left him with a mere shred of life; even that will be gone very soon as this trial ends, all purpose of his remaining lifespan ending alongside it.  

‘Am I supposed to recognize this cripple?’ Laurent asked, though he already knew what answer to expect.

‘You would, you paid him three thousand gold pieces to serve my brother poison.’

Three thousand gold pieces. The man was an idiot and Laurent had little sympathy for him. His greed had ended his life cheaply, along with the lives of the king’s and perhaps of Laurent’s own as well.

‘Was that what he said? That I paid him? I had never even met this man in my life.’

‘Yet he had confessed under torture. You should know that man speaks the frankest when they are brought near the gates.’

‘So it’s his words, against mine,’ Laurent said indignantly. ‘I would have contend with his false words if I could, but I do not think he has been left with the use of his tongue.’

‘His tongue was indeed removed once we have learnt what we need,’ said Councillor Audin.

‘Now isn’t that convenient?’ There was a reason why Veretian royalties still fancied this form of torture, not only does it prevents the accused of swapping statements from one to another, most importantly, it stopped them from testifying in courts at all. ‘How am I then to defend my innocence against a man who can’t even speak?’

‘You cannot,’ Councillor Chelaut admitted, giving Laurent the benefit of the doubt. But that statement itself drew some dissent amongst the council. Not all of the council was his uncle’s men, but most of them were. Laurent knew a difficult battle when he saw one.

‘Had I been his buyer, do you not think I would have taken more care of my identity? If this had been a nefarious plot, do you not think it was too simple? I stand accused by an unknown man, of an unknown origin, do you not think that he could be instructed to say what he said?’ There were a few heads nodding in agreement with Laurent’s words. ‘I say, the only plot here is that someone intends to implicate me in one.’

Again a chorus of dissent and agreements made its round along the rows of men. The Councillors were elected on merit, surely some must have noticed how very odd the whole setup had been.

They would have if not for his uncle’s silver tongue which could spin truth into lies, and lies into whatever he wanted the people to believe.

‘That may be what you want us to believe,’ the chancellor postulated. ‘An average man might have covered his tracks lest he be exposed for his treachery. But nephew, you have always been far too intelligent than a common man. Would you have done the same? No. You would think deeper. If it were you, you would have things arranged to cast suspicion on yourself, only such that you could throw them off later. ’

‘Uncle, it seemed you thought of everything just to malign me. Am I so culpable in your eyes?’

‘I only speak truthfully.’   _Or shamelessly,_ Laurent thought. The logic of his uncle’s argument was flawed and absurd, but it was unwinnable against. Had Laurent pointed out the stupidity of such a plan, it would only served to suggest its brilliance, simply because the very connotation of it was unthinkable to the common, and thus supporting the chancellor’s argument.

‘What good do I get from murdering my own father?’  

‘You get a kingdom,’ a Councillor quipped, and Laurent made a snort of derision at the suggestion. ‘Are you suggesting that I would murder the king for the throne?’

From the silence in the hall, that was what most of the Councillors were thinking.

‘Preposterous! I must see the crown prince. What did the prince say when you proposed such a ludicrous tale?’ The crown prince was his half sibling, the only child of the King’s marriage to the first queen who had died in childbirth. Due to complications from the birthing, the crown prince had a weak constitution, which only worsened as the years passed and these days the prince was away from the politics and confined mostly to bed. They had been close when Laurent was a boy, but had drifted apart with Auguste’s death. Now that Laurent reflect on it, the distance wasn’t a natural progression, but was a result of his uncle driving a wedge between them. Still, it was unlikely that the crown prince would sit by while Laurent was being incriminated.

‘The crown prince…’ Herode had a mixed expression on his face, before shaking his head sadly. ‘The king’s passing had shocked the crown prince greatly. The prince’s in delirium and the healers are speaking of sending him to the temple.’

Laurent did not think it a coincidence that the crown prince’s condition had taken a turn for the worse at a time when their father was gone. His uncle had wanted to truly isolate him.

‘Laurent, you’ve heard Councillor Herode. The crown prince is indisposed. If you have no further demands, the council will adjourned.’

It was hardly a fair trial. It was never intended to be.

 

* * *

 

They had Laurent under house arrest and accorded him with all the lavishes a prince’s status merited, except for his freedom. Accused or not, Laurent was still a prince and until the council could decide on his guilt, he was to be treated fairly as someone of his station deserved.

‘Speak, you look like you had something to say.’

Damen had been quiet during the trial. But now that they were alone in Laurent’s quarters, the man obviously had something pressing on his mind. ‘You knew this would happen.’ Damen’s tone was accusatory. Had he already regretted hitching his fortunes with that of Laurent’s.

‘I did,’ Laurent admitted. He had suspected it would play out the way it did the very night he received words of his father’s poisoning.   

‘Why did you even return? You could have stayed in Marlas.’

‘Then that would just give them more reasons to find me guilty. And this time there won’t even be a proper trial.’ Arles was a trap, but an unavoidable one. Laurent must return if only to try and clear his name.

‘You know that was no trial. They will find you guilty regardless.’ Laurent didn’t need Damen to tell him that, the situation was worse than what he had expected. He did not anticipate how quickly his uncle had got to the heads of his supporters in his absence. There’s no telling how many in the council remained loyal to him. But the likelihood that he would walk free was disappointingly marginal.

‘You should come clean.’ Damen was looking at Laurent warily. And Laurent felt a self-deprecating smile tugged the corners of his lips. ‘Of course. A cold-hearted man such as I would have absolutely no compunction poisoning my own father to further my ambitious agenda. In fact I must already have my own coinage designed for the moment I ascend.’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Damen cursed. ‘I know you didn’t do it. But I think you know who did.’

‘If that’s what you think, then perhaps you don’t know me at all.’

‘I know you are not a good man,’ Damen said exasperatedly. ‘You lie, you cheat, you kill people. But you never act without reasons. You are doing all of these for something. Some kinda goal or whatever. Now I don’t know what is burdening you. I don’t know what is so important that you think you must do it all alone. But you are not alone. I am still here.’

Laurent stared at Damen and found not a trace a falsehood in him. He must reassess the man. Damen was way dumber than he thought. Laurent had lived the way he did for years, did Damen really think a man’s character could be so easily changed just because some guy from some out of the world places tells him to. That’s impossible.

Still, Laurent found himself saying sulkily, ‘It’s not Jokaste, if that’s what you are thinking.’

‘It’s not?’

One look at Damen’s face, and Laurent knew what he was puzzling over. ‘Oh, believe me, that woman has no great love for my father. She would eventually see to it herself to dispose him. But that won’t be anytime before the throne for her son is secured. And since you are still breathing and alive, she couldn’t have make her move yet.’

Now Damen just looked at him all confused, trying very hard and failing to figure out what exactly was going on. Damen was present at the trials, Laurent thought it quite obvious by now, who they were up against. That man should really devote more time to sharpen his wits than to build more muscles. God knows that he had enough of the latter.

‘When we first met, you said that we were playing a game of throne. Have you ever counted then, the number of players? Think about it, other than the crown prince and my dead brother, there are still three princes left. Three possible kings.’

Laurent let his words sink in, before continuing silkily, ‘I, as you know, play alone. The queen, plays with my littlest brother. Who do you think then, plays with the fourth?’  

‘You don’t mean…’ Maybe it hadn’t occur to Damen at all that blood ties could be something so dreadfully complicated. After all weren’t families supposed to stick together instead of trying to outlast each other. That Laurent wouldn’t know, the Veretian’s royal family he was born into was rather different. A quick glance into the family history would uncover so many accidental deaths or illnesses that robbed the lives of a king’s candidate, that one would wonder how their lineage even managed to continue for this long.

‘The chancellor?’ Damen said incredulously and Laurent nodded.

‘The king and the crown prince hold the power of Vere’s troops. The queen holds the temple, and the chancellor, the council. Now isn’t this a delicate balance? I kept you alive for so long simply because I had to. Were Jokaste to know that you were dead, she would not hesitate to side with my uncle. And then the balance would most certainly have tilted in his favor.’

Jokaste had thought herself a worthy match for his uncle. She was a pretty woman, her childbirth had barely left it’s mark on her visage and figure and her vanity was her downfall. Laurent had no doubts that his uncle had played to her charms, had acted as if he were her captive when he was her predator. If only Jokaste had known where his uncle’s tastes truly run.

‘She must be wallowing in self-regret right now.’ Laurent knew that he was in a much precarious position than the queen. Still he couldn’t help but gleefully comment on Jokaste pathetic state. He imagine the woman boarding herself up in the grand temples, faking grief over her husband’s death and biting at her fingers panicking.

Had Laurent not been implicated in the crime, he would have been the next crown prince and would then wield the power of the army. The status quo that they had would then continue, and the queen would still have a chance at Damen. His uncle had Laurent set up, to prevent exactly that from happening. And once Laurent’s gone, Jokaste knew that she would surely be next.

‘Does your brother know he’s being played by your uncle?’ Damen asked, as if he still could not wrap his head around the idea of familicide.

‘Nicaise?’ Laurent quirked an eyebrow. Unlike the fifth prince who was truly a sweet boy, Nicaise like Laurent and their beloved uncle, had inherited the worst of their blood.

‘I think you should assess him for yourself. Knowing him, he should be here anytime soon if only to gloat in my face.’

Laurent was right, for at that exact moment, a knock sounded at his door.

‘Your highness, Prince Nicase had arrived.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter in one day? I am on fire! Actually this chapter was going to include the scene when Nicaise did finally meet up with Laurent, but then i decided that i really need to study for my test, and split this into two.
> 
> But Laurent urgh. So difficult to write. He's smart, he ruthless, yet he's also a little bit mischievous, playful and snarky. But it's his feelings for Damen that's the hardest to write. At this point of the story, he's starting to be a little intrigued by Damen, and of course he likes how the man look. But is it love? Would he be devastated if Damen die? I don't think so. And I am trying my hardest to get him to that state. It doesn't help that Laurent is having this mentality that he want's to stay away u know? It's like he's singing and repeating the lyrics to "i won't say" in his head. At least Damen's honest to his feelings.


	15. Chapter 15

‘Nicaise, how sweet of you to visit your disgraced brother,’ Laurent drawled sarcastically from the comforts of his couch, not bothering at all to keep up the pretence of cordiality that they usually display in more formal company. 

Nicaise ignored him, and instead walked right up to Damen, who was seated in his usual spot on the ground beside Laurent. Taking Damen’s chin in his hand, Nicaise tilt it first to the right, then left, as if he was inspecting a pet hound at the markets. It amused Laurent in a way, to see Damen reduced to a mere toy, by a boy who barely reached his midriff in height. 

‘So you are the slave I’ve heard so much about,’ Nicaise spoke in a sultry tone usually reserved for times when he’s in want of something. Laurent could already guessed what his intentions were. Laurent always had a strange affinity with this little brother of his despite their petty bickerings. Like minds think alike in the very same vein that they repel. 

‘You poor thing, your master is going down,’ Nicaise flicked a finger along the side of Damen’s face, which continued down his neck and pectoral, not noticing or perhaps not bothered that the man was turning slightly green with unease. ‘You would not want to go down with him would you? If you want, I could make an offer for you. I have always wanted an Akielon slave.’ 

If Nicaise had thought his boyish charms could seduce Damen, he was in for a rude surprise. In the short time Laurent have had to observe him, Damen did had a soft spot for children who he would call ‘kids’, but it was definitely not in the way Nicaise had intended. Veretians’ proclivities for young lovers appeared to be much frowned upon in the place where the man came from. Nicaise would have better chances swaying Damen to his side, had he acted his age as common boys would.  

As Damen turned to Laurent with wide, pleading eyes, Laurent took pity on him. ‘Nicaise,’ he warned, not expecting at all for Nicaise to take heed. His brother had stopped listening to him years ago. Indeed, Nicaise merely cluck his tongue cheekily at Laurent’s disapproval, and plied Damen with more honeyed words. ‘Are you afraid of displeasing your master?’ He winked, and edged closer to Damen as if to crawl onto his lap. ‘Ignore that frigid prick, you would have much more fun with me anyway.’ 

‘Oh god, stop it!’ Damen pulled back so hard, that his head hit the corners of the couch with a hard knock. Laurent winced for him, as most bystanders might when they see a hapless accident taking place. On the other hand, there were also people like his brother. 

‘You rejected me,’ Nicaise looked uncharacteristic stunned as if he could not believe a lowly slave had dared to turn down his proposal. Damen had one hand on the back of his head, still in pain, and barely had time to respond before a swift and tight slap was dealt to the side of his cheek. Laurent cringed, but he could not deny that it was rather gratifying to see Damen, who now had his other hand on his cheek, being utterly bewildered by his petulant brother.

‘Did you really think I would be interested in the likes of you had you not been my brother’s?’ Nicaise spat angrily. ‘Laurent. When had you tastes stoop so low? What did you even see in this poorly trained buffoon?’ 

‘His virility,’ Laurent answered without missing a beat and Damen spluttered. Nicaise did not fare any better and gaped at Laurent who reached forward to soothe Damen’s burning cheek with the back of his hand lovingly as a master would. 

‘You… you are lying!’ 

‘Am I?’ This time, it was Laurent’s turn to play coy.

‘You’ve never been interested in this sort of…this... In men!’

‘People change, don’t they?’ Laurent said mockingly. ‘I could say the same for you. You were never interested in the throne. What brought about your change of heart?’ 

Nicaise fell into a dull silence and looked away from Laurent, like a child who had been caught playing with fire and things far too dangerous than he should ever touch. It was a while before he said, ‘You knew how my mother died.’ And for a brief moment, Laurent could see beneath all the pretense and spitefulness that he fronted, the child his brother was.

Laurent knew. Nicaise was not born to a queen, but that of a royal consort, who had been one of the Queen Hennike ’s ladies in waiting. She too had died exceedingly young at an unfortunate time when the courts were in the process of electing a new queen. Rumors had it that were she not summoned through the gates, she might have been the next queen of Vere. Though the healers had concluded that it was a sudden weakness of the heart, Laurent knew better.

‘Do you blame me for her death? Had my mother live, yours would too.’ Laurent asked softly. 

‘Not you. You did not kill her. Jokaste did.’ 

‘How did you know it was her?’ The consort’s death had occurred at a time when Laurent had been too grief-stricken and too ignorant himself, to have discern the details. But when he had the chance to reflect upon it much later, it was undeniable that the present queen might have played her hands in it. 

‘How did I know it was her?’ Nicaise snickered as if Laurent had just asked the dumbest question. ‘Everyone knew it was her. Even our dear father,’ he gritted angrily, biting hard enough on his lips to draw blood. ‘But that coward did nothing.’

Politics made difficult bed partners in a king’s marriage. Jokaste had been from a prominent family, and it was likely that his father’s hands were tied to keep the precarious power play between the throne and the council. Undeniably though, it could also be as what Nicaise had said, that their father simply had not care enough. To a king, a pretty face and a comely woman could easily have been replaced with another. 

‘Is that why you have him poisoned?’ Patricide was a serious sin, Laurent had not wished for it to be on Nicaise’s conscious. 

‘I was there when she died,’ Nicaise spoke softly, but Laurent could hear him just the same. That was impossible, the consort had died in her sleep, his brother could not have witness it. ‘I was four, they thought that I was too young to know what I saw.’ 

‘We were eating. It was soup I remember, and it had onions in it. My mother ate first while I was picking them out. When I looked up, she was already coughing blood.’ Nicaise stared blankly ahead. ‘Do you know how scary it was? To know that the food had been poisoned? To know that had I not hated onions, I would have died the same way as my mother. Gasping for air as I choke on my own blood.’ 

Laurent only had his first encounter with poison at sixteen. That was when he first defied his uncle, and had been somewhat prepared for the retaliation. But still, a servant died. And Laurent knew at that moment then, how far his uncle was willing to fall. To a four year old child, who had witness first hand his mother’s death, the event would be traumatic. 

‘You said you don’t blame me. But I think you do. I should have been there for you.’ 

‘You were a child back then, there was nothing you could have done for me.’

‘I was your age then. Fourteen.’ Laurent said. ‘And then fifteen, sixteen. I could have at least protected you from the fangs of the chancellor.’  

At the mention of the chancellor, Nicaise’s mask of defiance was back on. ‘That’s not necessary. He’s the only one who cared enough to protect me.’  

‘Was that what he said? That he will protect you,’ Laurent had heard the same spiel from his uncle too. 

‘I was four. How do you think I get to live this long?’ Nicaise retorted. Laurent knew exactly how. It would have been the same way that Laurent himself did. Warily and carefully, painfully conscious that every breath he breathed was at the leniency of another. Nicaise was inspecting his face closely, he must knew what Laurent was thinking. Like two peas in a pod. 

‘Enough of this. I am not here to reminisce on old memories,’ said Nicaise and Laurent knew that moment of understanding between them was gone. ‘I am here to make an offer.’ 

‘How gracious of you.’

‘Plead guilty before the council and I will let you live.’ 

‘Let me live?’ Laurent asked in mocked terror. ‘You speak as if you already knew what the council’s decision would be.’ 

‘The chancellor has more than half of the councillors in his pocket. They would pronounce you guilty.’ Laurent was hardly fazed by a fact he already knew. ‘If you plead guilty, I would have you exiled instead of guillotined. You would no longer be a prince, but I would make sure you can still live like one.’ 

‘A generous offer,’ Laurent nodded agreeably, ‘And what do our uncle say to that?’ 

‘He was amicable to the suggestion. Once the crown prince had been summoned, I would be king. He would listen to me.’ Despite his adult mannerism, Nicaise was still too young to be fully trusted by the council. No doubt then, his uncle would seize the chance to assume the role of the regent and all power of throne and council would be vested in a single man. 

‘And you believe his words?’

‘He never lies to me.’ That itself was one major lie, Laurent thought sadly. The chancellor do not do things half-hearted. The day Laurent leave Arles for exile, would be the day he cross the gates. His uncle really had Nicaise twisted around his little finger, though it was Laurent’s own neglect for it to reach this point of no return. Still Laurent made one last attempt to reason with him. 

‘If it was as you said, that your revenge was reserved for Jokaste. Why was I to take the brunt of the fallout?’ 

‘Make no mistake. Jokaste will get her turn soon enough. I will make sure of it,’ said Nicaise. ‘But we need you out of the council first.’ 

‘Let me guess? Our uncle’s word.’ Nicaise did not reply to his question, but he did not need to. ‘Laurent, you are too just, you would never have supported what I intend to do. You should have been king. I’m sorry.’

It was a sincere apology which Laurent had not expected, and he felt a pang of guilt hit his guts. ‘You think too highly of me,’ the words were out before he could stop them. ‘I can be ruthless too. It’s in our blood,’ he whispered with a side glance to Damen, that man would know. 

Nicaise was looking at him in suspicion, and Laurent quickly recomposed himself, ‘Give me some time to think about the offer.’ 

‘There won’t be much time, until the council arrive at a verdict.’ 

‘Then I would announce my decision before the council. If what you said is true, it would not have mattered anyway. I would have been just as guilty.’ Laurent replied in defeat. His uncle had him cornered in a tight spot, exactly the way he wanted. 

As the door closed behind Niciase, Damen finally stood from his knee which had been chafed red by the burns of the rugs. Turning an unimpressive eye at Laurent, he gave his most honest feedback. 

‘No wonder you are so screwed up. Your whole family is crazy.’ 

Laurent blinked at him. He did ask Damen to assess Nicaise on his own. Well that…but on second thought, it did sum up their situation perfectly. And it also explained how Laurent could, despite the perilous situation he’s in, still find enough humor in that statement to laugh.

 

* * *

 

The council sent for him in the wee hours of the morning, out of the sights and ears of the general populace. While Laurent may not have been as well-loved as Auguste had been, there was still a fondness amongst the people for him. Which was probably why the council had not release the news of the king’s death and the supposed part in which he was purported to play. They wanted to be sure of Laurent’s guilt, to at the very least, contain the sentiments of the people.

But they could have too called for him in the mid of the night. If they had not done so, it could only have meant that the vote was far narrower than what his uncle and Nicaise had made it out to be. They may not have as much of the majority as they had claimed. 

The council was seated when Laurent arrived in tow with Damen. Some may have found it inappropriate for the prince to bring his slave to such an important meeting, and they let their displeasure show. Nonetheless Laurent had no care for their approvals. He needed Damen’s protection as much as the man needed him. It was possible that his uncle might have him murdered even before his guilt is pronounced. And it was just as likely that Jokaste would want Damen dead in a last fanatic effort to stay ahead. 

‘Nephew…’ His uncle spoke, but Laurent stopped him before he could make his speech.

‘Uncle wait,’ he said solemnly while keeping his eyes held steely on Nicaise’s face. ‘You are convinced of my guilt, while I stand firmly by my innocence. Since no compromise could be reached I propose that we leave the verdict in the hands of gods.’ 

His uncle’s glares were like daggers, cutting up little holes in him. He must have foreseen that Laurent might have chosen such a move, and had send Nicaise along to present him another way to perhaps live, not realizing how far Laurent would go to keep his name clean of the crime that tainted his brother’s. 

‘As prince of Vere, I demand by my birthright, a trial by combat.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of those few chapters which i sort of drafted out in mind even before i started writing this story. Unfortunately Damen was relegated to a background character. I have always loved how Laurent and Nicaise sniped at each other in the originals, and I wanted to keep to it in this fic as well. 
> 
> To be honest, i got the idea of trial by combat from gladiator and the colosseum stuff in general. Not GOT. But since we know Damen watches GOT in this fic, I am totally going to have him make references to it in the next chapter.


	16. Chapter 16

Laurent smirked as he recalled the look on his uncle’s face. The chancellor was livid. Never in Vere’s history had a trial ever been denied. That was the one single truth his uncle could not have alter to his whims. The moment Laurent invoked his right, both knew that the council would have to accede.

Yet it was a hollow victory, for it just as true, that no one had ever survived the pits. That was the only reason why his uncle had conceded to the council’s decision. Trial or not, Laurent’s death was inevitable; and Laurent’s only hope of staying alive would be to flee before the trial commences. 

Or that was what his uncle would want him to do. Laurent refused to adhere to this meaningless script. 

Had the inquest been concluded solely at the council, the people would most surely be served a perverted truth. So mangled and twisted, that Laurent would hardly have recognized himself in the purported role he took. But if the pits were employed, then the people of Arles would know about Laurent’s cause, that he had fought till the very end for his innocence. The council could smear his name all they like after his death, but Laurent’s final defiance would sow the seeds of dissent that could haunt the reign of the new king - whoever that may be.

Laurent would not run. He had been prepared to enter the pits. 

Damen, however, had his own ideas. The moment the door swung shut leaving them alone in Laurent’s chambers, the man made a desperate proposal. ‘Make me your champion,’ he said as he crowded Laurent against the wall, hands gripping Laurent’s shoulders in a tight hold. ‘I may not be great with a sword. But I have been practicing. I will win for you.’ 

Keenly aware of how close they were, it took awhile for Laurent to realize what the man had just offered. ‘You don’t know what you are saying,’ he muttered, as the words sank into him. ‘You don’t know what you are getting into. You don’t even know what a trial means.’

‘I take it to mean a fight.’

‘Not just any fight.’ Laurent felt a vein throbbed as his frustration climbed. ‘A fight, to death.’  

‘I know.’ Two simple words and Laurent went still. If the man knew, why then would he have asked to take Laurent’s place. Was Damen that confident of his skill, or was he in for the thrill or just suicidal. A myriad of possibilities flooded his mind, and Laurent let them, if only to drown the alarms of the least desirable reason which Laurent was not prepared at all to contend with. He settled for the most plausible. 

‘Are you worried that you have to remain in Vere if I were to die?’ 

‘That’s not…’ Laurent cut Damen off mid-sentence, his question had been rhetoric and he had no want of any answers. ‘I am sending you back,’ he claimed. A simple conclusion to what had been a tempestuous alliance, which was only to be expected from an encounter as peculiar as theirs. 

‘What?’ A look of genuine surprise crossed Damen’s face. 

‘The game is done. I’ve lost. It is pointless for you remain. I will send you back now, while we still have time before the trial.’ It was the end that Damen had been searching for and the man should be agreeable to Laurent’s proposal. He must be. Laurent would make him. 

‘But Jokaste…’ 

‘Ah that,’ Laurent sneered. ‘If it was so easy for man to transcend worlds, do you not think Vere would long have been swarmed by people the likes of you. Having you brought here was a one time gambit. Jokaste with all her powers, can only perform this deed once. If I send you back to where you came from, her clutches can reach you no more.’ 

It didn’t take long for the realization to dawn upon Damen. ‘You could have send me back a long time ago,’ he said accusingly. His hold on Laurent’s shoulders relaxed with the revelation, and Laurent took the chance to swipe Damen’s arms entirely off of him. 

‘Yes I could,’ Laurent sniped as he turned to walk away. ‘You were useful to me back then. I could not have you leave. So I lied.’

‘How could you? I trusted you,’ Damen called after him. 

‘And I did warn you to trust no one. You can hate me. But I don’t think you ought to bother. Once you leave, you would never have to see me again...’ An arm grabbed him, and Laurent felt his world spun. When his feet was steady again, he found himself once more face to face with the man he was trying very hard to send away, only this time Damen had him pinned flatly against the wall.  

‘I am not leaving,’ the man said stubbornly. Between them spanned a distance too intimate for Laurent’s comfort, but pitting himself against Damen’s strength would be an exercise in futility.  Laurent knew of other means to drive a person away.

‘Ah. So that was it,’ he said with a knowing smirk, as if he had just been made privy to Damen’s deep little secret. Wrapping his arms around Damen’s neck in a lazy embrace, Laurent let his voice dropped low and provocative. ‘We can have one good fuck before you leave.’ 

Damen winced as Laurent’s words hit him. But he did not ease up on his hold, which was why Laurent too did not ease up on his words. ‘I know you want me the moment you see me,’ he said. ‘If your desire is what’s holding you back, I can let you have me.’ They were so close now that Laurent could see his own reflection in Damen’s eyes. ‘Once.’ Dark pupils dilated at his words. ‘And then you leave.’ And immediately Damen’s eyes drew shut, a clear rebuff. ‘This isn’t what I want,’ he said.

Trust the man to reject what little Laurent had left to offer. He could feel his resolve and his defence, so resolutely held before, crumbling. ‘What do you want then,’ he hissed in sheer frustration. ‘If not a fuck or your freedom, what more do you want?’ Damen had asked to take Laurent’s place in the pits and Laurent knew what that meant even if the man himself had been too obtuse to be aware. Damen was offering to Laurent, his life. Willingly. And Laurent... Laurent did not know what to make of it. 

'I want to protect you.’  _ Protect. _ A lie that was all too familiar. A betrayal packaged into a promise that was never meant to be true. He should laugh at the irony, he should tear the words into a thousand pieces and throw them back at Damen. He should but he could not. Laurent had thought himself no longer susceptible to the honeyed words of another, but Damen’s words felt different. They felt real. And it sickened Laurent that a small part of him wanted to believe. 

‘You can’t,’ he reasoned. ‘You are only going to get yourself killed trying.’ He was not sure who he was trying to convince - Damen or himself. It was a feeble attempt and Damen was not the least daunted. 

‘That night when you told me to trust no one, you said something else. Do you remember?’ the man asked. That was a while ago,  Laurent remembered but he did not understand why Damen chose to bring it up now. ‘You said you would give me a reason to die for.’  All at once, Laurent began to dread what he would hear. ‘Don’t say it.’ He tried to muffle Damen’s mouth with his hand, but the man only pull it away with a look of annoyance and determination. ‘I say protecting you is one goddamned good reason.’ 

It was too much. And Laurent’s mind went blank. He blinked once, then twice. Each time he flicked open his eyes, he found that the world had not changed - there was still light, there were still shadows and he was still alive and still pinned up against the wall by a strange man from a foreign land. But something had clearly felt different. 

‘You are a fool,’ he felt the fight left him the moment he breathed out those words. He had been the recipients of offers since he was of age. But those people were always in want of something - prestige, gold, the carefully cultivated husk of the prince he was. Damen had known of Laurent’s true colours, and yet he still thought him as a man, and not the fiend he was. 

‘Maybe.’  Damen gave a wry smile. 

‘Or insane,’ There was no other explanation.

‘That too,’ the man agreed. 

‘If you want to die so badly, I will grant you your wish.’ The insanity, and the stupidity, they must have been infectious for Laurent to even consider this possibility.  

‘That’s what you keep saying, but I don’t think I will die. Have a little faith.’ 

‘Faith?’ Laurent asked. ‘You may indeed be superior than most men in a tussle. But your skills and strength are nothing against claws and fangs.’

That caught Damen’s interest. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The beasts in the pits. No man had ever fought them and leave unscathed.’ Even if they had been alive when the trial ended, most died anyway from their wounds shortly after. 

Damen eyes widened, and Laurent felt a nagging suspicion that there had been a severe misunderstanding. ‘Had you thought you would be fighting men?’ He asked. The man did not answer but his expression conveyed enough and Laurent felt the beginning of a headache. 

‘I felt it strange when you claimed you know of the trials.’ Damen was from a land which considered whipping and flogging as something barbaric. Surely they would have considered the pits a much crueler and savage invention. ‘You may have know it differently in the place where you came from. But are you sure you understood what it means here?’

‘Well I saw it on TV.’ Damen tried to explain. Laurent frowned at the unfamiliar term, which Damen caught on to . ‘TV… It’s like a play. Like at the theater.’ 

‘A play. At the theater,’ Laurent repeated dryly. Is the man joking with him now. 

‘Yeah I saw it on… a play, where the accused fight someone to prove his innocence to the gods.’ So the intention was the same, but the mechanism worked differently. Laurent sighed and pushed Damen away from him not without a tinge of impatience and this time the man let him. Walking to his chest of scrolls, Laurent rummaged through them before finding the one he was looking for. ‘We call it the pits,’ he explained as he unrolled the scroll and reveal the familiar drawing of a round amphitheater which stood in the heart of Arles. 

A look of recognition seemed to flicker briefly across Damen’s face, but he stayed silent, having apparently learnt his lesson not to assume things he had no clear knowledge of. ‘This is how Veretians keep the costs of our prison low. A simple way to discard criminals easily and entertainingly to make space for new prisoners. Had Aimeric been alive, he would most certainly be thrown in here.’ 

‘And what do the criminals fight in there? Dragons?’ Damen asked warily and Laurent rolled his eyes. ‘Dragons.’ He chortled. 

‘We would have employed them had we know where to find them. But everyone knows dragons are not real,’ Laurent chided and Damen looked affronted. ‘Still we did find good substitutes.’ Laurent rolled the scroll further to reveal the intricate sketches of the monsters he will soon have to face. ‘Beasts with a dragon’s claws, and marked bodies in a fiery red. Their mouths may not breath fire, but still they spark fear in the bravest of men, for a bite is all they need to send men to the gates.’ 

‘Oh a tiger,’ Damen said calmly as he peered at the drawing. This time Laurent was surprised. ‘What did you call them?’

‘Tigers,’ the man said it slowly, repeating the strange word for Laurent’s ears. ‘We actually have them where I came from, although most were killed due to poaching. They are being protected now.’ 

‘You hunt them and then you... protect them?’ These were fearsome beasts that Vere had acquired from the Vaskian mountains. If not for the gold and gems that one beast could fetch up to, no sane man would ever be caught approaching one willingly. And those that did, did it for desperate reasons and never in a group lesser than five. ‘Are you sure it’s the same beast?’ he asked skeptically.

‘Hell yeah. The stripes are exactly the same, like a tabby cat.’  

‘Except a hundred times bigger.’ And Damen nodded knowingly, like he knew exactly what he was saying. ‘How many are we up against?’ He asked contemplatively.

‘The beasts in the pits are different to those in the wild. They have been trained and attuned for their function. One is capable to enough to kill a dozen men. But knowing my uncle, he would ask for three to be released at once. Throne, council, and temple, the sacred number.’

‘Three.’ Damen was silent, even he must realize by now, how impossible it is to survive the assault of three such beasts. ‘That’s tricky…’ he finally admitted. 

‘You can still leave,’ Laurent tried. It was not unusual for man to regret in a written agreement, much less a verbal one with not even a single collateral,  Laurent would not have blamed him in the slightest. But Damen hardly considered his word, and was instead mumbling to himself like a mad men. ‘A sword is impossible. That guy only got lucky. Spears? Arrows? Yeah right, not unless I’m Katniss Everdeen. Not unless… Wait a minute,’ Damen turned to stare at Laurent, eyes wide and mouth held agape. ‘Hypermenestra was right. This is some crazy shit.’ 

He grabbed Laurent by the shoulders suddenly. ‘You know what. I may have figure out a way to get us out alive.’

 

* * *

 

There was a small snag to their plans. It wasn’t technically possible for Damen to take Laurent’s place in the pits. A minor inconvenience perhaps, but not something that Laurent could not talk his way out of. His uncle was not the only one in their family with the gift of glib. 

Which was why on the morning of the trial, the council found themselves looking down at an entitled prince who had brought along with him, his slave to the fight. 

‘The slave will fight for you?’ His uncle looked completely nonplussed. He must be feeling so  disconcerted that Laurent had even made it to the pits. The past three days had been a game of cat and mouse between the both of them, with his uncle trying so hard to kill him, and Laurent inviting those Councillors and friends whom he knew to be just and their guards to his mansion on the pretense of bidding farewell to them. It was his final request as their prince, and some had been so sentimental that Laurent felt guilty for manipulating their goodwill. 

‘He will fight with me,’ Laurent corrected. ‘I have the right to choose what weapon to bring with me to the pits. I choose him.’ 

‘He is a man. Not a weapon,’ the chancellor gritted out.  

‘He no longer exist as a man when he took my mark. A slave is his master’s property, and a tool at his master’s disposal.’ Laurent’s words was common sense among the Veretians. It was true that people consider the slaves as less of man and more of possession. If his uncle could use them as spoils in those games he hosted, there was no reason why Laurent could not use them as weapons in the pits. Some of the Councillors were already nodding to his argument. 

‘And what does your slave says to that,’ his uncle asked, all men are cowards before the prospects of death. And his uncle must have thought Damen the same. 

‘I serve at the behest of my master. If he considers me his sword, I would gladly be one for him,’ Damen had infused in his speech, the admiration and love for his master, exactly as Laurent had instructed him to do. It was a little too cloying actually, but an adequate performance, judging by the looks of some in the council. 

‘Nephew. You have demanded for the trial, and you shall fight in it.’ 

‘Ha, Uncle! Do you think this an excuse for me to run from my fate? How do you expect one to wield his weapon if he stays away. Throw me in the pits with my slave. And if we live, we live. And if we die, then we shall die together.’ 

The councils knew the rumors. It wasn’t a closely kept secret, and everyone in Arles had thought Damen a lover of Laurent. And Laurent could guessed what some of the Councillors were thinking as they heard his words - how tragic, a lover suicide. Laurent could even see Councillor Mathe dabbing silently, the corner of his eyes. The Councillor was rumored to be a great benefactor to poets and playwrights and Laurent could now see why. 

Surprisingly, or perhaps unsurprisingly, it was Nicaise who hammered the final nail into the coffin. ‘Fine, take your paramour and toy with you,’ he said with a hint of what Laurent thought could have been envy. ‘He can watch you die the gruesome death you deserve. Let’s see then whether his love for you remain after you have been torn up into little pieces of meat scraps. ’

It took all of Laurent’s willpower to stop himself from smiling. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah I changed the title, it was a working one. I am always bad at naming stuff. When I was a kid, I named my dog, doggy. I may have to change it again.   
> And i have been changing the number of chapters too. 18 was a lie! I have been lying to myself.


	17. Chapter 17

They made quite a sight, him in the full splendor of a prince’s armour and the mountain of a man beside him, trudging down the narrow corridors of the hypogeum which reeked with the stench of men and animals.

There was no question who they were, or why they had turned up in this wretched place usually reserved for the scum or the most desperate. These days, no one in Arles could make it through morning without being asked for their thoughts on the prince’s trial. It was never that simple when a reign ended in Vere. The people would mourn for the death of their king eventually, but only when it became certain who died, and who was crowned. For now, gossips and speculation took precedence.

As they walked past the cells, greedy shiny eyes followed Laurent’s every move. The cages restricted the men’s movement but not their tongues, which wagged filthily of what they would do to his mouth had he been behind the bars with them. It said something about Laurent’s chances of survival when a trio of guards swaggered towards them, eyes gleaming with indiscernible intent as their handler scuttled away leaving them behind with the guards.  

‘Well, well what do we have here?’ One of them smirked. ‘An Akielon slave and his catamite.’

‘We don’t have time for this,’ one of his companion said with a frown, but the leader of the trio barked him down. ‘We would if you could just shut your mouth.’ It was obvious what their intentions were, in the eyes of these guards, Laurent was no longer their prince, but a man soon to be dead. And dead man could not speak ill of the living.

‘I have always wanted to fuck…’ And in next moment the man was crashing into the wall and falling face flat onto the ground, out cold.

‘Your bedside manner is horrible,’ Laurent said after a brief pause.

‘Come on, there are way better dirty talks than that. And don’t think I didn’t notice that hand on your sword,’ Damen snorted. The man was getting to know Laurent. Had the blow from his shield been slower, Laurent would have already lopped the guard’s head off of his shoulder, not for the insults, but simply because of the possibility, however minor, that the men had accepted his uncle’s gold. Turning a feral grin that was all teeth to the remaining guards, Damen said, ‘Now do you want to bring us to where we should be at, or do you want to join your friend on the ground here?’

‘I told you this was stupid,’ the guard from earlier grunted in annoyance as he motioned his colleague to take care of their friend. Then to Damen he said ‘Follow me.’

They were brought to a shaft which was occupied by a wooden cage. A discordant mix of sounds echoing from above it. As the doors to the cage slammed in their faces, Laurent felt a keen pair of eyes on him. The guard was staring at him. ‘The preparations will be ready.’ he said. ‘May the blessing of the waters follow you, Prince Laurent of Vere.’ Laurent could only nod his head at him numbly.

‘I am trying to imagine their faces when we leave the pits alive,’ Damen whispered in his ears as the guard walked away, leaving them alone in a caged cell.

‘If we leave.’ Laurent wasn’t one to count his chickens before the eggs have hatched.  

‘Will it kill you to have a little more confidence in my skills?’

‘Considering that it will indeed kill me if your plan doesn’t work, I am only being sensible in my expectations.’

‘If it’s any consolation, you won’t be alone. I will be dying right alongside you.’ Like a pair of tragic lovebirds. The ill-fated Veretian prince and his Akielon slave. Laurent could almost hear the ballads that were undoubtedly being composed at the very moment.

‘Think they will write a song about us?’ There was a slight tremor to Damen’s voice. Too faint to be noticeable if Laurent had not been paying attention. There was a tinge of paleness to the man’s olive skin, and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. Laurent was certain that had he held Damen’s hand now, the palms would feel cold and clammy. ‘Look at me.’ Laurent pulled the man towards him, head to head. ‘Stop thinking,’ he said as the caged enclosure they were in started wobbling beneath their feets, and the groans of moving cogs and toiling men filled their ears. ‘It’s not one of your strength.’

The trapdoor above them creaked open, and fiery light danced on the peripheries of dark eyes staring into blue ones. Laurent could feel his blood humming to the deafening roars of the spectators, and he wondered if Damen could still hear him or if he was already drawn into the thrill of the hunt. He let the man go, and turned to faced the walls of the shafts. ‘Just do what you always do, and get us out of here.’ The cage opened, and they climbed the wooden platform onto the arena.

It was different, to be in the hearts of the pits looking up at thousands of nameless faces, instead of looking down from the usual comforts of the royal stands. To be the one condemned instead of the one condemning. Beside him, Damen had gone still, eyes squinting against the onslaught of bloodthirsty screams. Then in an indecipherable act, the man crouched down to the ground for a handful of dirt which he then rubbed between his fingers. ‘For luck,’ he said stiffly when he caught Laurent looking. Laurent wondered if he should emulate him, god knows they need lots of it.

The bells were sounded, increasing in intensity as the sounds echoed within the theater. And the crowds fell into a solemn silent.

‘People of Vere,’ the chancellor addressed the crowd from the royal stand, and not the council’s as he would usually be at. ‘Today we witness the judgement of a heinous crime. A judgement meted, not by us mere mortals but by the watchful eyes of the gods.’ Then turning his gaze down, his uncle addressed him. ‘Laurent, my beloved nephew. I can forgive you for taking the live of my brother, but not for robbing the people of their king. I can forgive you for your lies and falsehood, but the gods will not. Do not hate me for this, for it was you who guided the axe to your throat and when you breath your last, remember that it was your own greed, your own ego that brought about your very downfall. And with this offering, we are kins no more.’

‘I am starting to hate him,’ Damen said beside him.

‘Only now?’ Laurent scoffed. _Kins no more?_ He thought ruefully as the chancellor lifted his goblet to the air and tilted it, letting the red of the wine splashed onto the grounds before him. In Laurent’s opinion, their kinship ended ten summers ago.

The bells sounded once more and noises of the crowds filled their ears again, as both men made a frantic dash to the nearest wall. With his back against the wall, Laurent lifted his shield and scanned his surroundings warily. Other than the shaft they used, there were eleven other trapdoors peppering the arena, and there was no telling which one, the beasts would eventually emerge from.  

‘Target one, nine o’clock,’ a steady voice called out from beside him. Damen was already in stance, shield stuck upright on the ground, hands on the black metal barrel with practiced familiarity. He wasn’t looking at Laurent anymore, or anything else other than the huge monster that was prowling a short distance away. When the beast started charging for them, Laurent turned away. The hunter was too part of the hunting, and it was up to Laurent to be Damen’s eyes and shield while the man was occupied elsewhere.

Laurent could see a dust of movement right ahead. Twelve o’clock. The coordinates having been drilled into his head the past few days. It was much further and Laurent wondered if he should give the signal when he heard a chink of metal, the only warning, right before his eardrums exploded in pain. _What in the fucking name of light?_

The peal reverberated, drowning all sounds along with it. Spectators and the roars of beast alike. His men were right, it really did sound like a thunder and Laurent scrambled to stuck the cotton covered wood plugs into his ears. He had thought them unnecessary, but now he knew how wrong he had been. The second crash engulfed him almost immediately after, and even with the plugs now securely in place, his ears still hurt. How could Damen even endured it? To be in the center of its roar and not lose his mind.

The second beast, the one he had spotted, broke into a sprint. But no, not to them. It had ran away from them towards the edge of the arena, clawing and leaping at the walls in evident fear when the path ended. Laurent stared at the sight dumbfounded. The impossible was unfolding right before his eyes. This time, when the third wave cracked off, Laurent saw it go down. Falling from the wall to the ground. The beast staggered, but tumbled soon after with another crack of that dreadful sound. And this time, it laid unmoving.

The third beast, never even had a fair chance to display it prowess. It’s heart was pierced the instance it leaped its way out of captivity. There was never a single thing Laurent had to do in the pits. Damen was right, he had it all under his finger

He felt a tap on his shoulders. Damen was saying something, grinning from ear to ear with a thumbs up in the air. _No,_ Laurent thought as he removed his plugs. _It would not be a song about them._ The man was moving now, picking his shield up and gesturing at the beasts. _It would be a song about him._

 _‘_ We should check if they are really dead,’ Damen was shouting. ‘Give them a mercy kill if we need to.’ Laurent’s ears were still ringing. He could hear the wails of crying children, with some adults mingled amongst them. Those sounds. The people must have thought that the gods had indeed descended upon Arles for the judgement.

He looked towards the royal stands for the chancellor. The man was watching Damen with an odd expression. And Laurent knew then. ‘No!’ He shouted, the exact moment the trap door sprung open and the fourth beast sprinted ahead, right in Damen’s direction. Laurent saw him turned to the sounds of the roars and raised his weapon to take aim. But it wasn’t fast enough for the first swipe of claws. And he went down, the beast falling right onto him.

 _Please,_ Laurent prayed as he broke into a run. _Take me. Anything. Just let him live._

 

* * *

 

The tiger was relentless. Damen thought. He didn’t have the slightest clue where his gun was at, it having flown off his hand when the tiger pounced on him. Not that a gun would have helped Damen much. Seeing that he needed both hands on the shield just to barely keep himself from being mauled by a giant cat.

He cursed as a claw cut his arm, drawing blood. Five great shots but one stupid miscalculation and Damen had doomed Laurent and himself both to an untimely death. The only thing he could take solace in was that he didn’t have to see Laurent die. _Torn limbs, spilled guts, charred flesh, lifeless eyes._ The images assaulted his mind, bodies he came across in the field, replaced with the prince’s face. _No_ , Damen wouldn’t want that to be the last image he see of the man. It would have been unbearable.

The beast growled and pressed harder down on him. Damen’s thoughts went to his squad mates back in their barracks, joking that they would bet on him if Damen ever got into a fist fight with a bear. His thoughts went to his sister, and his soon to be born nephews; he would never know whether they would have their mother’s features. He thought of Laurent, bathed in moonlight, and he closed his eyes.

The tiger gave a victorious roar, and a sickeningly sweet metallic scent filled his nostril. There was no pain.

Which was weird.

Damen had sustained injuries many times before, in many different parts of his body, and every time they had hurt like a bitch

His eyes snapped open.

The tiger was still above him, baring its jaws. But only this time, in agony, as Laurent pulled his blade out and dug it deeper into its neck where spine met skull. The prince barely flinched when the spew of blood painted him red. He curled his hand around his sword like a lifeline, driving it again and again into the trunk, until the animal stopped struggling and rolled over. The prince was wild-eyed and breathing harshly, visibly shaken as he knelt down beside Damen, searchingly.

‘You are alive,’ Laurent said, voice sounding far too rough as he ran his fingers over Damen’s face in disbelief. ‘You are alive,’ he said again, cradling Damen’s face with both hands. Damen became slowly aware that he’s staring but can’t bring himself to stop. Then for the briefest moment, Damen felt the chaste touch of lips against his. He reached a hand to brush Laurent’s cheeks, could feel him leaning into it, before blue eyes snapped wide, and then the man was gone. A warmth that came as fleeting as it left.

‘People of Vere,’ Laurent addressed his people. ‘Today you bear witness not to a judgement.’ His voice carried dignity, even though his golden hair was matted with dirt and blood. ‘Not to a trial but a vindication of my innocence. You witness today, a miracle. ’ Then with a triumphant swung of his sword into the air. ‘The gods have spoken their will. I live. Your prince lives. Long live the Kingdom of Vere.’  

Spoken like a true prince. Damen thought, as the crowds erupted in exuberance around the theater. Laurent was a prince, he reminded himself with a bitter grimace. A prince from a faraway fantasy land. And Damen was a soldier, a commoner. A wanderer that only happened to chance upon this strange world. Vere was not home and Damen could not afford to leave his heart behind.

 

* * *

 

‘How are your wounds?’ Laurent asked the moment he entered the bed chambers, having finally disentangled himself from the arms of Councillor Herode. The Councillor had kindly offered them a discreet ride in his carriage back to the prince’s mansion, and then for some strange reason, proceeded to make himself comfortable and refused to leave.

‘Superficial.’ Damen gave a once over at the freshly bandaged wound on his arm. It had been a close call, and to leave with a single cut was the best that anyone could have asked for.

‘Good.’ The prince said while making quick work of his still bloodied armor and casting them aside.

‘Should I leave?’ Damen asked gesturing at the bathwater laid out by the attendants. ‘For you to get cleaned.’

Laurent held his gaze for a brief moment and smirked, right before pulling his bloodied tunic off. ‘That won’t be necessary. It’s nothing you haven’t seen.’

True. But it was still a lot to take in every time Damen sees it. Unlike the time at the baths though, Laurent did not ask Damen to wash him, but swiped himself down quickly before pulling on a fresh linen tunic.

‘Councillor Herode had called for a celebratory feast here tonight. I have requested for us not to be disturbed until the preparations are ready,’ the prince continued as he rummaged through his chest and pulled out a satchel which he then tossed at Damen.

‘Pack some clothes,’ he said.

‘We are leaving.’

‘What do you mean we are leaving?’ Damen asked as he caught the pieces of clothings that were thrown in his direction and stuffed them quickly into the satchel. Being a slave in Vere meant he had few possessions other than the clothes on his body and even those had been brought to him by the prince’s attendants. 

‘Talk less, pack faster,’ was Laurent’s curt response, and Damen noticed that the prince had too procured a smaller satchel of his own, and was filling it with small trinkets, leather pouches and bread rolls. The prince finished his get up by fastening a plainly fashioned sword to his waist which tipped him off that wherever they are heading held the possibility of encountering danger. Damen made a grab for his sword. 

‘Leave that, it draws too much attention. And you carrying it draws even more.’ It took Damen a second look to comprehend what the prince meant. The sword was too ornate, and too rich for a common man, much less a slave. In short, it simply wasn’t discreet enough. Instead, the prince tossed him a leather package which Damen unfolded to find his knife, the one he had brought with him, to Vere. The handles looked different now, but the blade was the same. Either way Damen would have recognized it, it was too different from the style of weapons crafted in Vere.

‘I would rather have a sword,’ he said for obvious reasons. A sword had a longer reach. Still he tucked the short blade into the folds of his sash. 

‘You are no good with one.’

‘It’s a matter of comparison against you. I am pretty sure I can draw in a sword fight with Jord by now.’ His response draw a smile from Laurent, and Damen wondered if the prince was even aware of how frequent he had been doing that recently - smiling. 

‘I must say you are a fast learner,’ Laurent said. ‘But trust me, that dagger of yours is worth a thousand swords in Vere.’ It was one of his squad’s standard issue, Damen didn’t think it was that costly, especially compared to the prince’s gold plated and sapphire encrusted one. His perplexity must have shown for the prince explained. ‘When we first fought, your knife laid cracks to my sword, one that was crafted by the very masters of the royal forge. When I sent this blade to them, they could not even melt it. This knife is one of its kind in Vere for sure.’ 

Of course it would be. The knife embodied a thousand years of technological gap in metallurgy. A technique that might have yet been too advanced for the Veretians and Damen for the first time, wondered how disruptive his presence could potentially be to the trajectory of this world. Like a pebble thrown into a pool of water, sending ripples through what was once still surfaces.  

Laurent was looking at him contemplatively, and Damen wondered if the prince had thought the same, that somewhere in Damen’s brain, sat perhaps a wealth of knowledge that the prince could pick at which would have fast forward the development of Vere by a hundred years or more. But the prince said nothing, and instead beckoned Damen over to a carpeted wall mural. As the prince lifted the mural away from the wall, Damen half expected to find a door behind it. But there was nothing. It had looked exactly like an ordinary brick wall and the illusion held until Laurent inserted a long wire into a tiny crack that was barely noticeable, and Damen heard the tell-tale sound of a click. With a push, the brick wall swung back slowly to reveal a narrow passageway that went deep down below the ground. Laurent lit a lamp and handed it over to Damen. ‘Wait here,’ the prince said with a whisper, before walking back into his chamber and yanking off the rugs beside his couch to reveal yet another trap door carved into the floor, and Damen realized then that Laurent was setting up a diversion. 

‘You think that will throw them off?’ he asked when Laurent stepped back into the passageway, the mural rolling back down behind him. As the prince closed the door behind them, the passageway was plunged into a deep darkness lit only by the frail lights of the lamp. 

‘Perhaps. There was no record of it. I don’t think my uncle knows of this.’ 

‘How did you find it then?’ 

‘I didn’t. Someone told me,’ Laurent replied tersely. ‘Aren’t you going to ask why we are leaving?’ 

It wasn’t a subtle change of subject, and for Laurent to go all careless and prickly like that, Damen could make a lucky guess who that someone was. He let it go. 

‘Not why actually, but why now? We could have left ages ago, even before that deal with the pits.’ 

‘Then we would have left as criminals. Of regicide and patricide, no less. I could not let myself be branded as a kinslayer. Never.’ 

‘But the trial should have cleared your name. Why do we still need to leave?’ The steps had tapered off and they were now walking on flat ground. The path was clearly not intended for someone of Damen’s size, and various points of the trek had Damen bending in awkward angles to avoid hitting his heads on the ceilings above.

‘Yes it did. And thanks to that spectacular display, the council could not dispose me without displeasing the people. But the moods of the people would not sway the chancellor. Since the pits did not kill me, he would. And it would not be like those feeble attempts before the trial,’ Laurent said, the lights of the lamp casting a shadow across his face. 

‘Not poison, not a few bought assassins, and definitely not the rule of law. This time he would hunt me down and he would not rest till my throat is slit. He’s ruthless to those he cast aside.’

Damen could see where Laurent was coming from. The chancellor had murdered his own brother in cold blood and seemed perfectly contented to throw his nephew into a den full of tigers. There was no telling what he would do to get what he want. 

‘What’s your uncle’s end game? Does he want to be king of Vere?’ 

‘Perhaps,’ was Laurent vague response. 

‘But if he’s as cunning as you make him out to be, he could have been king a long time ago. No offense, it’s just… you’ve got to admit, it’s a little strange that your father was king and not him.’ 

Laurent turned to him wild-eyed, as if the thought had just struck him now. And Damen wondered if he had said something wrong. 

‘I… You’re right. It’s strange...’ The prince mumbled uneasily. ‘I don’t know,’ he finally admitted. ‘Maybe someday we will know what his intents were. For now we should hurry. It’s only a short distance more.’ 

As they rounded a corner, the passage began to expand into a cavern and Damen could see the darkness bleeding away as the glint of light penetrated in.

‘Took you long enough, your highness,’ a gruff voice spoke aloud from the shadow, and Damen tensed before Laurent placed a placating hand on his arm. 

‘I was worried whether you got our message,’ another voice piped in, though this time it sounded youthful and bright, and for a strange moment, Damen thought he might have recognized it. No, them. Both voices actually.

As the strangers drew nearer, Damen could see their faces clearly now. One tall scruffy looking man, and a fair looking youth with brown hair, standing next to him. Damen’s mouth formed into the shape of an ‘o’, as his memories clicked in place. He had most definitely seen these people before. 

‘I have to admit it took me a while, given how cryptic it was. Especially when I didn’t know there were two of you. But I knew that you got my message, and that was enough,’ Laurent spoke. Unlike Damen, the prince barely blinked when he saw the pair, as if he was fully aware of the current situation. 

‘Everyone knows that Brothers do not work alone. Always in two, one in the light and the other in the dark. When one fails, the other take over. People just don’t know who the one in the dark is. It’s keeps our employers’ enemies on their feet,’ the youth laughed like a twinkling chime. ‘Talking about cryptic. Yours wasn’t any better,’ he pulled out a wooden tile from his sash, painted in bright colourful dots. 

Damen had seen a similar tile before. Hidden snugly in the turban of the most loquacious merchant ever. _A love token. A Talia._

‘Will live. Escape. Tunnel. Two,’ the youth read it with practiced ease. ‘I can’t figure out whether the two refers to the time or the both of you. I guessed it turned out to be both,’ he turned a cheerful grin at Damen. ‘Hello handsome. We meet again. No wait. Let me introduce myself properly this time.’ He cleared his throat and affected a grave tone, ‘Hi Damen, my name is Erasmus. Erasmus of the Bazal Brotherhood. And droopy eyes dude over there which I believe you too have met - ’ Oh they sure did, just moments ago. Beneath the grounds of the pits. That one guard in the dank, filthy place that did not buy into the antics of his comrades. ‘- is the shadow to my light. My - ’ 

The guard made a disgruntled sound of disagreement like he was retching, ‘Don’t say it like that. Pallas is my only partner. I only agreed to this job with you because the boss asked me to.’ 

‘Fine,’ Erasmus sighed with an eye roll. ‘ - very unwilling partner, and only strictly in a professional sense, then. Lazar.' Then for good measure. 'Also from the Brotherhood,’ he added with a wink. 

In Vere, everything hid beneath layers and layers of lies and deceit. And nothing was ever as simple as it seemed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the Chekhov's gun is a real gun…. I was wondering how many have caught on to it. Btw, the fic is a work of fiction. Tiger hunting is illegal and it’s good that there’s not many information on it. Also where i came from, it’s illegal to even fire a gun at the wall. So lots’ of artistic liberties were employed in this chapter. Let us just assume that Damen is a crackshot and the tigers in Vere were simply caught unprepared. Had the council let more than three tigers out at once, Damen and Laurent are dead meat. But in this world, no one knew about guns. And they are just like, ‘Okay fine, let’s not go for an overkill. Let’s make it dramatic and release it one by one, you know, to keep it suspenseful.’ 
> 
> Another short chapter. btw i am taking a break from writing this week. upcoming test :(


End file.
